Pinehurst
by abc79-de
Summary: Set right after Run Away Little Boy. Tristan heads to North Carolina, to military school. A look at his life as he makes the jump from troubled bad boy with a trust fund to military cadet in the midst of his reform. Not a Trory. OC, with the exception of the Dugreys and the occasional Gilmore reference. Tristan-centric.
1. Romeo's First Day and Other Woes

Story: Pinehurst

Chapter 1: Romeo's First Day and Other Woes

Summary: Set right after _Run Away Little Boy._ Tristan heads to North Carolina, to military school. A look at his life as he makes the jump from troubled bad boy with a trust fund to military cadet in the midst of his reform. Not a Trory. OC, with the exception of the Dugreys and the occasional Gilmore reference. Tristan-centric.

Rating: T. For language for sure. Likely adult situations later on.

AN: This will be unlike most all of my other stories. On purpose, so hopefully it will be a nice change. It's definitely a fun one for me.

I awake to revelry playing outside my window.

Trumpets burst out the tune in sharp, staccato precision, a reminder to all not only to wake the hell up, but to do it efficiently. I have no idea what time it is, other than too early to rise or shine, given the fact it's still dark outside my tiny window. I have a clock, but I threw my shirt over it in the middle of the night, in a fit of insomnia as the red numbers glared at me in the dark. I let out a low guttural noise and yank the solitary standard-issue pillow over my head. The sheets I'm wrapped in have no discernible thread count. I squint so hard it becomes a grimace, but it does nothing to drown out the second and final refrain of the brassy tune that ends as abruptly as it began. I'm not in hell, but it feels like a close second. It's my first full day at Pinehurst Military Academy.

A sharp knocking sounds at my door not thirty seconds later. I toss the good-for-nothing pillow to the ground and swung my bare legs and feet to the cold tile floor of the small room, careful not to hit my head on the bottom of the empty top bunk. There is just a bare mattress above me, without bedding or any other signs of an otherwise absent roommate. I stretch my sore body and find I can nearly touch the walls opposite each other at the same time. Each boarding room is reminiscent of a sardine can, or jail cell. No one bothered to give me anything other than orders upon my arrival, and so I am clueless as to how I lucked out by being left in solitude. I am in no mood to deal with people, especially strangers in close quarters. I'm probably considered some kind of risk, to myself or others. I am at best a bad influence. I am positive there is already a file in the Quartermaster's Office with my name on it and a lengthy discussion on my inability to heed authority figures.

I'm also not in the mood for waking before dawn, and yet, here I am stumbling across my room in my boxers. I blink sleep out of my eyes and manage a questioning grunt by way of greeting as I open the door.

A man in casual fatigues stands before me in the narrow hallway. It's brightly lit, despite the fact the sun has yet to advance over the horizon. The contrasting glare hurts my eyes. His arms are crossed over the pressed khaki of his shirt. His forehead creases in displeasure at me in general, not unlike my father's had been the entire ten-hour drive down the day before. Ten hours is more time than I've spend with my father in the last six months. Ten hours trapped in a moving vehicle with him was a harsher punishment than being sent to military school in another state, exiled from everyone I know.

Everyone else back home was enjoying their Thanksgiving break. Instead of eating turkey and pie, I packed up a small suitcase of approved belongings and endured a torturous car ride featuring long stretches of bitter silence interspersed with long-winded lectures about a variety of topics from my disgracing my family, the realities of the criminal justice system, and the multitude of consequences that were set to rain down if I stepped one toe out of line from that point forward. It didn't come as news that my father considered me a disappointment, nor was it the first time he'd bandied about the idea of cutting me off. My headmaster's mantra in regard to me all semester long had been the words 'final warning.' Seems a shame he never got to throw me out. My father ripped me out of school before Headmaster Charleston had the pleasure. Before I got to play Romeo. Before I got to kiss my Juliet one last time.

"Cadet Dugrey."

I scratch at the back of my hair, feeling the odd sensation of the freshly buzzed hair. I normally keep it long enough to style by running gel through it with my fingers, and it feels oddly soft and severe at the same time to my touch. I take in a breath and only then notice the co-ed in uniform standing with perfect posture and her arms resting in a stiff fold behind her back as her eyes fix to some point on the wall next to my door while my very first lecture begins. I'm not in class yet, but I have already fucked up. With an audience.

This is how my life is going of late. I'm a first-class disappointment and a second-class citizen. Not allowed to choose my own hair style, clothing, or wake-up time, apparently. I offer an appraising smile at the uniformed female standing three feet to my left, but she never even attempts to make eye contact. My attention is drawn back sharply by the barking tone of the master general in my face.

"At Pinehurst we rise at zero five hundred and are dressed and have the bed made by zero five-fifteen. Calisthenics began at zero five thirty, followed by breakfast in the mess hall at zero six hundred sharp. Your regulation uniform is required in public at all times during school hours, and public indecency is punishable by military law, is that clear?"

"Yes, sir, but I'm still in my room," I say, adding some sign of respect while stifling a yawn. The man's expression does not improve.

"I am your superior, Cadet. This is not your precious prep school. We are not your parents. We are here to educate you in the manner fitting the military of this country. To that end, there will be no leaving this room, under any circumstances, in your goddamn underwear. This is not a frat house. You've already overslept, you're about to be late for morning warm-ups, and you're showing signs of insubordination. Is that how you want to start off this new appointment?"

"No, Sir," I answer, standing up a little straighter, which sets off a cramp in my shoulder. My father droned on about rules and my need for structure and discipline and being taken down a few (thousand) pegs on our car ride. My dear old dad seemed oddly pleased that the military academy would be a rude awakening for me. This morning definitely qualifies for that title. Back home I would be rolling out of bed in another two hours, and making a stop for coffee before driving my Boxster to school. That is, if I didn't feel like blowing off first period altogether.

"Get dressed and meet us downstairs in three minutes or you'll become acquainted with our demerit system."

"Yes, Sir." My door closes with a slam. My heart jolts hard, like a part of my life is shutting down. I have no idea who has just chastised me, other than a superior, but who isn't considered my superior at Pinehurst Military Academy? The janitor probably has a higher military standing. Freshman know more about the rules and regulations, being that they'd been here two months, topping my twelve hours. I've been here long enough to get sheared, fitted for and assigned two uniforms, and handed a very thick book about the expectations of the Academy. I'd thumbed through it briefly after letting my father leave without a goodbye. I turned off my light hours before lights out, staring up at my ceiling and thinking about my last day at Chilton. Or rather, my last night. I wrestled with consciousness and dreamed of azure eyes and the death scene from _Romeo and Juliet_ and small town dance studios. It was a fitful night spent repeatedly waking up in a cold sweat, and I don't feel rested.

I dress at top speed. It isn't the first time I've had to race to dress in a crunch. There have been multiple occasions in the past couple of years, in inappropriate places as well as inappropriate people, where I found myself disrobed and compromised. I've nearly been found by fathers and brothers and boyfriends of my paramours. I've been known to taunt other guys while making plays for their girlfriends. There was only one time I didn't act as I pleased, denying myself a last kiss from a girl that had driven me to distraction for over a year, solely because her boyfriend was watching us. The only person I said goodbye to when I left Hartford. The Juliet to my Romeo. We'll never get our final kiss. And I'm sure she's as relieved as I am tortured by the thought.

I feel stiff in my clothes, which were prepared with starch. I look down at my shoes, which gleam up at me, shiny black patent leather. I am expected to keep them as pristine as they are now, along with my uniforms. I've never done laundry a day in my life, nor any other chore for that matter. That's why my parents have staff. There will be drill clothes, which I can pick up at the end of the week, along with a dress uniform, which I'll need for ceremonies and other special occasions. I had more choices with the stupid Chilton uniform, even with its limited blue plaid. Gone are my choices of appearance.

Fitting, as most of my other choices in life were just stripped away from me as well. Nothing about my new surroundings feels comfortable. Everything feels sterile and rigid. I'm not just starting over. I've been stripped of everything remotely familiar.

I am downstairs in my allotted time, and this time the pissed off early riser introduces himself. He is Lieutenant Briggs, and he's in charge of transfer students. He reviews the topics I was quickly introduced to yesterday when I checked in with my father, though I was hardly paying attention at the time. I was far too busy being pissed off and ignoring my father. Briggs points out the buildings where my classes will be and the mess hall and various yards. He walks briskly and I fall into step with him as we cross the quad toward where people are gathering, I assume for calisthenics. He then launches into a short lecture about the waiting list of kids who want a spot at this institution for learning, and how he looks down on people pulling in favors to game the system. He looks at me sharply as he says this, with all his distaste, as if it had been my idea to enroll here.

My father. Of course my father pulled in favors to get me shipped here. It's how he goes about life at large. He's not a man to be patient or wait his turn. Though he's quick to punish my own impatience or attempt to elicit favored treatment. I haven't earned it, as if he has. He was born to the Dugrey name, just like me.

I assure Briggs I don't expect special treatment with as much humility as I can muster.

"Good. Because you won't get it here. This is Cadet Williams. She'll be your peer mentor for the first week. She'll show you the ins and outs, and the behavior we expect of our students."

I take note of the girl that saw me in my underwear not ten minutes before, a silent shadow that trailed us all the way to the yard. She gives Lieutenant Briggs a salute, holding the pose until he returns the gesture. He heads back toward the main administration building, leaving us to finish the walk, no longer at a march, to join the other cadets for morning warm-ups.

"You aren't hung over, are you?" she asks me, giving me a squinting side-eye.

"What? No. Just not used to getting up before dawn."

She smirks. "There's coffee, in the mess. It's not good, but it's effective. It's strong enough to peel the paint off the walls."

"Sounds like a decent science experiment."

"It's been done, trust me." A whistle blows, three sharp hits, and people start to fall into lines. She points to where I should stand and she takes her place beside me. We're part of a greater formation. "So, what'd you do, to get sent here?"

Thoughts fill my head. My asshole father. My emotionally unavailable mother. The best friends who ratted me out before I could say a damn word once the police showed up. The one girl I ever really loved who cried when I kissed her. It's amazing that it took so long for me to be banished from the state of Connecticut, really.

"I was a dumbass."

"That could cover a whole host of sins," she said, prompting me for specifics.

I hesitate, remembering the event that escalated into the final straw. It all comes rushing back with vivid clarity, given that I was lucid despite the drunken state of my so-called cohorts. The flashlights, pressing the cold metal keys with the code, hearing the lock pop open. "I … broke into a safe."

She nods once. "Wow. Stupid."

I nod back. "Yeah. I know."

She smiles and then there's more official-type shouting. We're doing jumping jacks and push-ups and sit-ups. Not even the lousy half-assed ones from P.E., where someone sits on a partner's feet and people pretend to do a few before giving up. These people are moving as if their lives depend on it. When the drill instructor shouts, they shout responses back, and my ears are ringing from the group's sheer volume.

I'm in decent shape and I run to blow off steam, but I'm not in training like these people. I remember an off-handed mention during my rushed orientation of obstacle courses and wilderness training. I hope these come much later. I am not prepared, not for so many aspects of this place. By the time it's over, I'm not warmed up, I'm worn out. All I want is to go back to bed, but instead I follow my guide to our first class.

The feeling of unease doesn't leave me. I spend the day shadowing Jessica, who finally offered her first name to me after our third class, which was Beginning French. I took Spanish at Chilton, but it was full already, so I was put into French. Jessica took Latin for two years, but two years is all they offer, so she's switched to French this term. She's already fluent in Spanish and knows passable Portuguese. I know enough Spanish to get drunk in bars in Mexico and pick up girls. That's really more of a confidence thing, anyway. Not in my language skills, but with body language. I've never had problems getting girls, with one notable exception. Keeping them was another story, but I never put any effort into that. I might have with Rory Gilmore, but now I'll never know.

Jessica is also my lab partner, in Advanced Chemistry. She, like all the other students, pays attention, acts with respect to the instructors, all of whom are ex- or current military. I get a quick introduction in each new classroom. She does her best in between classes to explain the protocol that confuse me or take me off guard. I am not good at hiding my displaced shock as we move from class to class. I feel shaky and slightly nauseated, and only partially from the unforgiving coffee and lack of sleep. I vaguely wonder if this is what Rory felt like last year, when she started Chilton after the semester had started.

It isn't until lunch that I realize that Jessica isn't all work and no play. She motions for me to join her once we enter the mess hall, and she beelines to a table with four other people already at it. Three guys and a girl. The girl is reading, too engrossed in the pages to focus on whatever the guys are talking about around her, but oddly she doesn't seem separate from the group despite her lack of interaction. I'm the only outsider among the ranks. I walk up casually, if hesitantly. Jessica hasn't asked much about my personal life, save for what got me here, and I am glad to keep personal info private. I wish I had a book in which to lose myself. Again I think of Rory, always lost in a book when given the chance. I thought if there was one place I'd be able to keep her out of my mind, it would be at military school. I am so far miserably wrong.

I watch as one of the guys wraps an arm around Jessica's shoulders and she leans in to kiss him. It's not a simple gesture of greeting. I can see their tongues meet and I look away. The rest of the table offer groans and the girl blows a wrapper at them from the end of her straw before going back to her book.

"Get a room," one of the guys adds. He wears glasses, his dark hair is buzzed like mine and every other male on the premises, and he looks like he wakes up early to do extra weightlifting before our warm up. Where my uniform fits and falls in straight planes, his upper body reshapes his clothes. He looks to be the embodiment of the few and the proud. The guy next to him is just as fit as his friends, and he gives the impression he'd have a crew cut even if he were in a public high school. I certainly wouldn't want to start any shit if any of them were on the other side of the fight.

"I wish," the guy that is now finished kissing her says with enough desire in his voice to make most girls blush. Jessica does not. "Where have you been all day?"

Jessica points at me. "I told you, I'm on transfer student duty. Guys, this is Tristan Dugrey, fresh from Connecticut. Tristan, this is Charlie," she pats an open palm against her boyfriend's chest and holds there, "and that's Jack and Rob, and that is Bailey."

"Hey," I say, eyeing the seat next to Bailey. She looks up at the mention of her name. She's in the same uniform as the rest of us, and her blonde hair is pulled back in a tight French braid. It shows off the graceful lines of her neck, and her delicate chin. Even so, she seems to radiate a quiet fury. I see her eyes, which are soft and hazel but intense all the same. I look around the room and notice none of the girls have their hair down or loose at all. Jessica wears hers in a tight bun. All the girls here have their hair pulled back, in a manner that seems severe. Rory usually wore hers down, or with loose braids pulling back a section from her face. It always seemed to damn touchable, soft and shiny, like she belonged in shampoo commercials. She was more skittish in her reserve than hostile. She was the epitome of unrequited longing, making for some pretty damn good fantasies. I've been accused of having an overactive imagination on multiple occasions, but with her, all I had was my own resourcefulness.

"Take a seat," Jessica says, as if giving an order. I can tell she's been in charge of other students. She could definitely command a group. She's handled me all morning, steering me and prompting me with professional disinterest, while still maintaining what I guess is southern hospitality. We are south of the Mason-Dixon line, I remind myself yet again. I have zero interest in making friends, but Jessica takes her job seriously. She's not letting me out of her sight. It's not her fault I hate my circumstances right now. I do as I'm instructed. I sit down in the empty seat next to Bailey, who edges away from me with a nearly imperceptible shift in her seat. I notice, even if no one else does. She doesn't look at me again, delving right back into the pages open in front of her, though the other guys ask about my classes and offering opinions on the instructors and making random small talk.

"Connecticut, huh? You a trust-fund kid?" Rob asks.

"I was," I respond. I have no idea if I'm even in my parents will at this point, let alone the status of my trust fund. I know I have no access to my usual sources of money. He confiscated my cell phone and took my credit cards before I left, and I'm sure my Porsche's been sold for parts, just for kicks. Mom slipped me a couple hundred in cash before I left, giving me a stern, if Botoxed, warning not to tell my dad she'd been so generous. Because he'd already done so much by not letting me go to jail. Her words, not mine. I had no words. I just took the money and left.

"Do you have your mentor yet?" Charlie asks.

"Um, my what?" I ask. "Is that you?" I ask Jessica.

Jessica snorts, and Charlie shoots me a look. As if somehow I have illusions of cutting in on his territory, he's ready to defend her honor. I almost wish I had the faintest attraction. Jessica is smart and I'm sure if her auburn hair was ever down and she wasn't wearing the same clothes I was, she'd be a knockout. But honestly, my thoughts are still on the one that got away. I've been trying to get over Rory Gilmore for a year now. Even if the guys Jessica's surrounded by couldn't put me in traction, which they could, I have no interest in her past her help in surviving my first week here. I can't blame him, though, as I'm the unknown factor here, even though all I'm really feeling is lost.

"Everyone at Pinehurst is assigned a mentor, a member of the military. Someone that works on campus or someone from the base over at Fort Bragg."

Bailey has broken her silence. I turn and look at her, and she meets my eyes, briefly, before looking down at her tray. I'm momentarily frozen by a flash of hazel and a voice as soft and sweet as spring flowers. It's what I imagine any Southern Belle worth her salt would sound like. If Jessica's authoritative, Bailey's a mix of soothing and mysterious. I wish she'd say more, but she's done. She picks up an apple, takes a bite, and returns to her book.

I clear my throat. There's a group dynamic here, but I've disrupted it. Especially for Bailey. I don't think she likes the addition. "No one's told me anything about a mentor. I just got here last night."

"He slept in," Jessica told the rest of the gang, which makes the guys laugh. Bailey turns a page.

"On the shit list on your first day? Briggs will be on your case 'til they play _Army Blue_ ," Rob says, still laughing.

I barely have to raise my eyebrows in Jessica's direction before she offers a perfunctory explanation. "They play it at graduation. Briggs is a hardass with a long memory."

"Stellar."

"It's fine. The upper brass in Admin love me, so stick with us and stay out of trouble and you'll figure it out. The mentors do help you get your bearings, if you're having trouble adapting. They're meant to help you figure out what comes next, after graduation. You'll probably have a meeting set up before the end of the week. It takes some time, with mid-year transfers. Pinehurst runs on punctuality and structure. Tradition. Doing things on the fly rubs the old timers the wrong way."

"I noticed," I say. I feel like the classic cliché, a troubled youth being shipped off to military school. But I can't be the only one. Clichés are tired for a reason. "What did you all do, to get sent here?"

Jessica's posture changes, and I notice she shakes her head a little at me, a silent warning. Her eyes dart briefly to Bailey, but she refocuses on me and speaks up before anyone else can put me in my place. "This is one of the top military boarding schools in the country. It's incredibly hard to get into, and lots of us are legacies. I'm third generation," she informs me.

"I'm fourth generation," Charlie says with pride.

"What'd you do?" Jack asks. I can't tell if he's pissed at my assumption or not. He offers nothing about himself.

"Bunch of stupid pranks, mostly."

"He broke into a safe," Jessica admits on my behalf. It's becoming clear that this group doesn't have secrets from each other, but they are definitely keeping things from me. I feel my ears burn with heat and humiliation and feel Bailey shift next to me. Further away again. She must be hanging off the opposite edge of her seat.

I sigh. I have offered the same explanation a few times now, not that it's made any difference in people's opinion of me. "The other guy had a key. It was his dad's safe. We were just messing around. It's not like we stole anything."

"Then what's the point?" Jack asks. It's at least a new question.

I shrug. Hell if I know what I was thinking. The last few months I've been doing all I can to stop thinking. "Mostly we were just bored."

"Nothing to do in Connecticut?" Rob asks. He looks mildly amused, but probably at my own discomfort.

"We'll have to show him how to have a good time in town," Jessica tells her group.

"Is fun scheduled at eighteen hundred hours?" I ask, my sarcasm breeching my subdued manner.

"Work hard, play harder," Charlie says with a smirk. "It's more of a cadet creed than the school motto."

The school motto is all about honor and character a bunch of qualities my father has found me lacking. Not that I ever had a good role model before. This place is made to bend me into their mold, and it's up to me if I break or not in the process.

Lunch is over with a bell and everyone starts to return trays. I barely ate anything, but I'm not really hungry, either. I return a mostly full tray and back away. I bump into Bailey, who is finishing a paragraph and balancing her empty tray with one arm and her hip.

"Oh," she says, like an exhale as we bump off one another. "Sorry," she apologizes quickly, and I stiffen. Her book has fallen closed between her arm and her torso and she's staring at me as if she'd just rear-ended me in a car. Her eyes are wide and wary.

"No, I, I'm sorry. Go ahead. Please," I gesture for her to cut around me. I may be a Yankee, but I was taught how to be a gentleman. My skills might be rusty from disuse, but they are deeply ingrained from a young age. My mother is very into social standing, and as a result I was put through all the rigors of cotillion training for young men and years of society parties. None of the debutantes I used to consort with ever seemed capable of beating me in an arm-wrestling match, however. Even with her smaller stature, I would give Bailey the benefit of doubt against half the guys here, but especially me. She relaxes visibly and offers the promise of a smile, just the barest upturn of her lips on one side. I smile back, and someone bumps me at the shoulder as she exits the room.

"Dream on, man." It's Rob. He's dumped his tray and looped back around.

"What?"

"Bailey doesn't date. Anyone. At all. We look out for her, so if you're thinking she'd be a good distraction from whatever it is you're dealing with… forget it."

"No. I wasn't... I wasn't."

Rob nods once, taking me at my word. "Charlie, Jack, and I meet up, after last period, to run and lift. If you're interested, ask Jess. She'll tell you where to meet us."

"Thanks. I will," I say, and then everyone breaks off. Jess and Charlie kiss, again, and she says something low in his ear that makes him smile. He's leaning into her, and she's backed up against a wall away from the mass of cadets filing out of the hall. They aren't like the couples I hung out with at Chilton, or couples I was a part of. They seem comfortable and close, a bonded unit. Most of the couples I knew fought most of the time, fueled by drama and unfiltered rumor mills, and partners changed on a regular basis. No one expected to be together longer than a couple of weeks. Girls planned future boyfriends like they made hair appointments. If they were together in May, there was no way they'd be seen together the first week of summer, let alone come fall. But these two seem unshakable.

Jess waits for me as everyone scatters in all directions. "We're off to English Lit next. Shakespeare," she adds without emotion offering an opinion of the class. The sun is definitely up now, blaring overhead, and I notice how much warmer it is here than it was at home.

"Please, God, tell me it's not _Romeo and Juliet_ ," I groan.

She turns her head with curiosity. Her gait never slows. "How did you know?"

I shake my head just once before letting it fall back in defeat. I mutter under my breath. " _'A plague on both your houses. I am sped.'_ "

It really and truly hits me then. My exile is just a location change. All my demons have followed me to Pinehurst Military Academy.


	2. Every Savage Can Dance

Story: Pinehurst

Chapter 2: Every Savage Can Dance (Jane Austen)

Summary: Set right after Run Away Little Boy. Tristan heads to North Carolina, to military school. A look at his life as he makes the jump from troubled bad boy with a trust fund to military cadet in the midst of his reform. Not a Trory. OC, with the exception of the Dugreys and the occasional Gilmore reference. Tristan-centric.

Rating: T. For language for sure. Possible adult situations later on.

AN: Thanks for the feedback! I love hearing your thoughts and I'm glad people are willing to go on this journey with me (and Tristan).

My shirt is nearly soaked through. It's the only t-shirt I'm allowed to wear on campus, dark grey with blue letters spelling out Pinehurst across my chest. I have two identical shirts in my meager closet. Everyone in this yard has the same set of three, school issued requisite wear. We cadets are on a water break, timed like everything else on this campus. Chugging the cool water doesn't seem satisfying enough, and I briefly consider pouring it over my head. I swallow a big mouthful and look to my right, were Jess is taking normal sips and has barely broken a sweat. We're running sprints. There are what look like oversized boxing bags laying in a heap at the other end of the field. It's the last day of my first week at Pinehurst, and while I haven't thrown up from exertion yet, I don't rule it out as a possibility for the future.

"So," I say, my words breathy and winded. "Your friends."

She puts her bottle down and shoots me a side-eye. Jess never gives her full attention right away. Not to me, anyway. I can't tell if she's lost in thought or she's just good at filtering. She stretches her arms, one pulled across her chest, blocking the letters displayed there, holding it in place with her other bent elbow. I take this as a sign and tuck an arm behind my head, bending my elbow until I feel a stretch in my triceps. It doesn't take much, my arms are extra sore from lifting weights yesterday.

"I hear you've been meeting up with Charlie and the guys for their workouts."

I bob my head once, as I switch arms. We only have another two minutes before we pick back up, and then I'll be too winded to speak. "Yeah."

"How sore are you?" she asks, a twinkle in her eyes.

"I'm crying on the inside," I admit dryly. It's true. Everything hurts. It's worse after the days we lift weights. Like today. Stretching should feel good, but if anything it feels like I'm reminding my arms that they have been abused.

She chuckles. "I applaud your mental fortitude. Those guys aren't easy to keep up with."

"Neither are you. It's like everyone here is a part of some superhuman race. Governmental test subjects."

"Nah, just a bunch of Army brats," she said.

There's a pause. We are running out of time to talk. "They don't mind having me around, do they?" I ask.

She shook her head. "They wouldn't have invited you if they didn't. Charlie did say you seem like you have a lot of stuff you're working through."

I shrug and look around the yard. Everyone else is in little groups, gearing up for the next exercise. "What about Bailey?"

"She's not much of a weight lifter," Jess says, keeping her response light.

I pick up my water bottle again. "No, I mean, does it bug her, having me around?"

Jess lifts her eyebrows at me. "She hasn't said anything about you at all."

"She doesn't say much, does she?"

Jess pays attention to me now. She's sizing me up and she's putting her weight into it. If I weren't already sweating, I'd start now. "She's pretty private."

"It was cool of you to pull me into your group. It's not easy to get to know people here. I don't want to intrude, though, if I'm unwelcome."

Jess shakes it off. "It's not a problem. If it were, she'd have said something. To me," she adds. "Look, it's not my business. Either she'll warm up to you or she won't. But don't take it personally if she doesn't, okay?"

"Rob said you all look out for her."

"We do," she confirms. She doesn't elaborate.

"And that she doesn't date."

Jess stiffens. She looks at me like she caught me with plans to break into a bank. "She doesn't. Is that... you want to ask her out?"

"I didn't say that. I just wondered why. I mean, I'm sure it's not because no one ever asks her."

A whistle blows, a one-minute warning. "It's not my place to talk about her personal life, that's her business. If you really want to know, ask her. But, Tristan?"

I try to appear casual. I have no plans to ask anyone out, not yet. "Yeah?"

"Just tread lightly there. She's had it rough. That's all I'll say. Bailey's tough, but she has to be. Got me?"

I nod. I smile for effect. "Yes, ma'am."

"Just keep in mind, Cadet, I can still assign you extra laps," she warns, but she's smiling too.

I look over to where the instructor waits next to the huge bags. He looks far too smug. Now I'm concerned. "This is gonna hurt, isn't it?"

"You bet your ass," she assures me. One of the things that is comforting about Jess is that she doesn't sugarcoat anything. She's straight with me all the time. She always has an answer for me, even if she has to get back to me later. Her presence in my life this first week kept me sane. It's a miracle I don't deserve, that's for sure. Not that I believe in miracles, that is.

I try not to impede on her down time, as it's clear she doesn't see enough of her boyfriend for either of their liking. They didn't see each other for a few days, over Thanksgiving break. They hail from separate states, her in Tennessee and him in South Carolina, and spend holidays with their own families. They don't get a lot of time during the week to spend together, mostly just at meals and meager hours in between. He works part time in the mail room on campus, in addition to his ROTC duties and the time he spends with his friends, working out, and studying. They don't have any classes together.

I ask her how they even met, given their total lack of overlap. She gives me her signature smile, a cross between a smirk and genuine amusement. It is clear she enjoys retelling the story.

"My mom sent me a package, a batch of her famous homemade peanut butter cookies. He was working when it came into the mail office. He could smell them through the wrapping, and instead of giving me a package slip he made an unwarranted personal transport to my door, hoping to beg a few cookies upon delivery. He got two weeks detention for breaking protocol, but he still claims it was worth it."

"Must have been some good cookies," I say. She hits me in the stomach, but she laughs anyway.

Everyone here is booked up, though. Everyone is a part of some organization, group, or extracurricular, in addition to the intensive studies and military protocol we follow, and some have jobs on top all the rest of it. I'm keeping up, but I've yet to join anything extra. I go to bed late, exhausted, and get up early, just to rush to be on time. I sleep hard, and I'm sort of thankful for the fullness of my days. Military time starts to make sense, because every last minute of my time is accounted for, is needed. I haven't had time to sit around and lament the life I left behind. I don't have time to think about the fact that Christmas break is coming up in a couple of weeks, and I have no desire to spend it with my family. Not that anyone has sent me a plane ticket or asked me to find a ride share. No one has even reached out to let me know that I'm still welcome in my own home. The only person I'd want to see wouldn't be around Hartford anyway, not while school is out of session. She lives in the sticks.

I'm amazed, then, when talk at lunch turns to actual plans for the weekend. As in getting off campus. Jack's talking about a club, and Rob's teasing him about his dancing skills, and Jessica and Charlie are staring at each other like they're already on the damn dance floor. Bailey, true to who she is, says nothing. She hears them, I know she does, because she starts tapping her thumb against the bottom of the book she's reading. I know her reading is for school now, I checked when she sat down. It's our next play for English Lit, _A Midsummer Night's Dream_. We just took the exam on Romeo and Juliet yesterday. I stayed after my first class to speak with the instructor, assuring him I was ready, as we'd just finished our unit at Chilton. I got a B plus. It wasn't quite the end to the unit I'd been dreaming of for the last month, but my grade was no longer dependent on my kissing skills. Alas.

"You want us to pick you up, Bailey?"

Jess engages her in a direct question, and I force out a breath oddly when I realize I'm holding it while we wait for her to answer. She puts a finger in the folds of the book to hold her place. "Thanks for the offer, but I can't. My dad's home this weekend."

Jess nods and doesn't press further. I find this to be one of her most redeeming quality and the most frustrating. She turns her focus to me and smiles. "How about you, rookie? You too sore to dance?"

Rob snickers, as does Charlie. I roll my eyes at the lot of them. "Dancing isn't exactly my thing."

"We don't go so much for the dancing as much as the beer," Charlie says.

"Speak for yourself," Jack says.

I don't try to cover my surprise. "I'm not really looking to get busted again so soon."

Jess leans forward, her elbows on the table. "We cross into South Carolina, to get away from places where anyone from the administration might show up. And it's legal to get into the clubs at eighteen."

"I'm not eighteen," I shoot back, surprising myself again. I haven't hit a party in two years without having a beer at some point. I have no idea why I'm arguing, save for I don't want to know what future befalls me if I get kicked out of military school after one week. My father was way too quick on the trigger to send me here. I'm sure he has a back-up in mind.

"I am," Charlie says. "And they know us there. The bouncer will stamp my hand. It'll transfer until it dries, and then no one checks an ID. Plus, The Grange is a patriotic establishment. They'd never turn down military."

"The Grange?" I ask, my suspicions raising. It sounds like we're going to a barn dance. I don't say this out loud. The idea of beer and girls isn't unappealing in the least. "I'll think about it."

"You should come," Jess says. "You've had a shitty week. Getting out will help."

It could have been worse, I think to myself, another surprising realization. Not that I'm happy to be here, not in the least. It's still my last choice, save for jail. But even though I'm sore, exhausted, and otherwise overwhelmed, my state of mind is markedly different than before I left. "Yeah, I guess."

Jess claps her hand briefly in delight. "You can ride with Jack and Rob."

"You two just want to be alone so you can screw in the pickup on some pull-off on the way home," Jack says, stating the obvious.

They start to bicker among themselves, and I tap Bailey's book. She jerks her head up, startled at the intrusion. "How'd you do on the test?"

Bailey's in our Lit class. I actually have a few classes with Jack and Rob, too. Charlie's a year older, set to graduate come spring. The rest of us are juniors and the core classes are pretty standard. Electives are our only main divisions. "Oh. An A."

I raise my eyebrow, impressed. The test was hard, and I know that play. I can recite the final death scene backward and forward. I know the symbolism and the subtext and the history of the time period. "Wow. Good for you."

She furrows her brows at me, as if she's trying to decide if I'm being sarcastic or not. "Thanks."

"You're going home this weekend?" I ask, unable to stop myself. She spoke to me, and I want to see if I can keep it going. It feels like an aberration. I feel like anything might spook her and seal her up again.

She closes her book, putting her finger in the pages again. She turns toward me, her shoulder turning past mine. It's the first time she's looked at me full-on. I'm not sure what to do with myself under her scrutiny. Making eye contact feels suddenly overwhelming. I notice that she has freckles smattered across the bridge of her nose, sprinkled like fairy dust. "I go home every day."

"You live off campus?" I ask. I'm definitely surprised by this, even though I know some people don't board. It never occurred to me that she was one of them.

She nods and her gaze drops down. She's not looking at her book, though. She looks at my hand, which is still resting next to her book. I pull it away and rest it in my lap. "I live in Pinebluff."

I have no idea where that is. Honestly I have little knowledge of the geography of North Carolina or the South in general. Before now, this was fly-over territory for me, on my way to spring break destinations. "Is that nearby?"

She looks at Jess for a second. I fear she's going to shut down and return to her book, but she looks back at me. "It's just a bit south. On the way to The Grange."

Jess puts her hands together, in prayer position, as if she's ready to beg Bailey to come. "Please don't make me go with all these boys alone."

Bailey smiles, for the first time in my presence. She laughs. God, the sound is soft and light and magical. I become aware that I'm staring a few seconds too late, when I'm caught by Jess. She says nothing, but I know she noticed. She is definitely glaring at me, in a subtle if slightly terrifying manner. It's possible we've spent too much time together this week. She has been wavering between personal topics and school-related issues more and more in the last couple of days. Thankfully for both of our sakes, her duty ceases at end of day today.

"Something tells me you'll be just fine," Bailey says with no remorse.

"It's still more fun when you come with us. The more the merrier," Jess says, her hand disappearing under the table to rest on Charlie's leg. His hand disappears under the table not two seconds later. "It'll be the last chance before finals. We are all going out after finals. Attendance not optional," she says.

"We'll see," Bailey says, creasing her book open. She reabsorbs herself in the play, and Jess looks at me. She's switching gears, back to official duty. My mind is still somewhere between the idea of approaching final exams and winter break and how the green in Bailey's eyes contrasted the deep brown while she was talking to me.

Jess snaps me from my thoughts. "Do you remember where the conference rooms are?"

"This doesn't involve dancing, does it?" I jest. No one laughs. Bailey turns a page as if the interruption never occurred.

"Briggs set up an appointment with your mentor. You need to be in the Eisenhower Room at eighteen thirty."

"Who's my mentor?" I ask, genuinely curious. I assume she knows, because it's become obvious that she was given some sort of file on me when she was assigned to me. I wonder how many other people she's helped during their transfer process. If she's helped anyone else in our little group.

She shrugs. "Classified information. I'm on a need-to-know basis with my assignees during transition."

"Is that like Don't Ask, Don't Tell?" I inquire, another half-assed joke.

Jack stands up, muscling his tray as he leaves the mess hall alone. Jess gives a heavy sigh. "No. It's nothing like Don't Ask, Don't Tell."

The mood has shifted, sour and tense. I have no idea why my joke was so bad, other than it was a stupid joke. It was more a showcase of my limited knowledge of the military than anything else. Before I can ask, which I sense will make it worse, Bailey is packing up her things and sliding away from the table.

"I'll go," she says, giving me a reproachful look before she turns her back. I can see she's disappointed in me, and it cuts deep. It seems far too early to have upset the apple cart here, with these people.

"I didn't mean anything," I begin.

Charlie holds up a palm, indicating a full stop. "Don't worry about it, man."

But I do. The rest of lunch is spent in awkward, stilted conversation. I decide it's probably a good idea for me to skip out on joining the guys for an afternoon workout. It's not like I can't claim exhaustion. Jess doesn't say anything to me until after sixth hour. She meets me in front of the door to our history class, where we're about to start a new unit on military campaigns of the nineteenth century. She looks resolved. My guess is she's just come from a few stolen moments with Charlie.

I wait in the hall, books under my arm, for Jess to arrive. It's still my job to listen to her, and honestly I'm hoping to clear the air. The threat of alienating everyone I meet for the rest of my life has started to feel like an unavoidable pitfall.

"Look, Tristan. Everyone has their own stuff. I know there's stuff in your life, in your past, or maybe just stuff you left behind—stuff you don't want to talk about. Am I right?"

I open my mouth, but close it with a snap. I nod instead.

She relaxes her posture. She looks slightly less likely to hit me. "You seem like a decent guy. You just need to tread a little lighter. This place makes people tougher, mentally, but it isn't a cure-all for people's problems."

"If this is about Jack," I begin.

She draws back. "Jack? No, he's fine. He's… not the problem I was talking about. But that was a stupid joke. It wasn't funny, at all."

"I know."

She eyes me for sincerity. "Do you?"

"Yes," I say with force. "I do."

She waits for a second, apparently for me to figure out the gist of her message. "Bailey," she says finally.

I'm lost. I'm nearly positive I did nothing to disparage Bailey, unless my existence alone is enough. "What about her?"

She cocks her head and raises a stiff eyebrow at me. "Seriously?"

I groan. "I'm not interested in her, not like that."

She doesn't believe me. "You're not?"

"No! I don't go around hitting on any available female in my direct vicinity," I say, adding just one word to myself, _anymore_. "Besides, there's someone else… back home," I manage, but the words taste bad in my mouth. It's misleading, to Jess and myself. I've been misleading myself for months. Buying concert tickets, shamelessly flirting, starting fights. Breaking into a safe. Jesus. I cringe at what a fool of myself I made.

"Then," she says finally, "You should stop being so moony about Bailey. She isn't someone to play with."

I press my lips together and the color drains from them. I'm irritated at being lectured like this. Again. "Should I not talk to her at all?"

"If you can't keep from staring at her like she's emerged from a mystical lake? Then no, you shouldn't."

"I don't look at her like-," I defend myself.

"You do. I get it, okay? Bailey has no shortage of guys interested in bringing her out of her shell. But sometimes shells are in place for a reason. She needs her shell right now, okay?"

"But you won't tell me why," I say, not even asking. It's not a question.

"It's not my place," she says simply. "It's not my shell."

"But it's your place to tell me not to talk to her."

She groans, wishing I'd just obey her commands. "I think, yes."

"Are you this bossy with all your transfer cadets?" I ask, irritated. I rub a hand through my hair, like a phantom mannerism. There's no hair to thread through my fingers, just buzzed remains. I land my palm against the back of my neck before pulling it down to my side.

"Only with the ones that like to argue. Look, we all like you. I don't just invite people into our group like this."

"You mean your group isn't comprised of your rag-tag team of misfit toys? I'm special?"

"I've only taken one other transfer under my wing, into our group."

"Who?" I ask. I have the right to know. Part of me already knows, I just want to hear her say it.

She hangs her head for a second. "Charlie's been tight with Jack and Rob for a couple of years. We started dating early last year."

"When did Bailey transfer in?" I ask.

She bites her lower lip. She's physically uncomfortable, which is odd. She's always in control. She does not like that I've hijacked her conversation. "Last spring."

I nod. "I'm not going to do anything to her. I like her—I like all of you. I didn't have this at my old school, a group of friends, at least, not like this. I don't want to fuck it up. Apparently it's a skill I need to work on. Not fucking things up."

She accepts this. "Fine. You can talk to Bailey. But don't flirt with her. Don't stare at her. Don't stare at anyone. It's weird."

I smile, even though she pokes me in the chest. "No staring. Got it."

"And if Jack, Rob, or Charlie kick your ass, you deserve it."

I continue smiling. "I don't doubt it."

She frowns at me. "And stop smiling like that. God."

I follow her into the class, letting her take the lead. I know how much I have to learn here. At least, I think I do. Turns out, I'm wrong. As usual. I spend the afternoon working out with the guys, thankfully not getting my ass kicked. Whatever specifically bothered Jack at lunch is water under an unspoken bridge. We run in a staggered pack, looping the track until we risk missing dinner. I feel good that I'm getting faster, keeping up more and more.

Jess doesn't offer to walk me to my meeting—she's officially off duty. Her last official decree is for me not to make her regret her faith in me. I honestly don't know if she's tired of me or trusts me to navigate the campus alone. I still half expect to be uninvited from their plans later this evening, but before we all break up after dinner, Rob says to meet him in the main lot at eight so we can head down to The Grange. Jess gives me a nod, glad that things are smoother. Bailey isn't at dinner, and I assume this keeps my jackassery in check, at least in Jess' opinion.

I head off to the administrative building, and I find the Eisenhower Room by reading the posted sign in the main lobby. The light is on and the door is cracked, but I knock first anyway. I've started to err on the side of caution and good manners this week. I don't know all the right gestures and responses yet. I'm starting to catch on, both via repetition and observing people around me, but I've actually started to study that huge manual they thrust at me when I arrived. Not only does it help me avoid demerits, but it cuts down on my dependence on Jess.

"Come in."

I enter the room and offer a salute, even though the person seated at the long table isn't in uniform. I know he's military or ex-military, and honestly, it's becoming a habit. Anyone older than eighteen at this school has stars or stripes on their uniform and constitutes a salute. He's actually wearing worn jeans and t-shirt. He'd almost blend in anywhere.

He waves off my salute. "You're Dugrey?"

I nod, not sure what to do next. "Yes, sir."

"Sit down. You want something to drink?"

I think about my plans for the evening. The idea of cutting loose and having a couple of beers relaxes me. I've spent all week tense, rigid, pushing myself to physical limits and reigning in my thoughts to the best of my ability. Trying to holding back thoughts. "No, thank you."

He sizes me up as I sit down. "How was your first week? You ready to go home yet?"

I straighten my shoulders and meet his gaze, appraising as it is. I'm sure he's read my file, too. I'm tired of going into situations where I have no information and everyone's read my damn dossier. "That's not an option. I don't have a lot of options at the moment."

He claps a hand on the wood table, startling me. He stares at me like my head is lined with lead. "You really have no idea the opportunity you have here, do you?"

I immediately wonder if I can request a new mentor. Given all the flexibility I've witnessed during my first week, my guess is a resounding no. "Because I'm not in jail? I've heard the speech. Look, we can cut to the chase. I'm sure my file told you all you need to know."

"I know you're argumentative, you have a distrust of authority figures, and you got yourself shipped from Connecticut because you made some bad decisions."

"That's me. The luckiest son of a bitch here."

The guy smiles at me. I see why Jess told me to knock it off. I pull back in my chair. I don't sulk, but I'm ready to go. I'm ready to take off this stupid uniform and put on real clothes. Listen to real music, in a club, and just relax. He's just getting started, however. "You get to start over, Tristan. You can do whatever it is you want. You get to pick your path from here. You get to be whatever kind of man you want. What I want to know from you is who that man is going to be."

I leave forty-five minutes later. My mentor is stationed at Fort Bragg and will only say he's on an administrative assignment, in transition. He does a lot of talking, again about my options. He asks me questions, and I don't have a lot of the answers. He asked me where I wanted to go to college, and without thinking about it first I gave an automatic reply: Princeton. It made me mad, as I realized that was my old future. Where I was supposed to go; it's where Dugrey men attend college. It hit me at that moment. My last name no longer dictates my future, and I feel cut free in a different way. It makes me feel strangely empowered, to be so far from my old life. Last week seems more like last year.

I feel reborn.

The sense of temporary euphoria carries through the evening. I meet up with Jack and Rob in the main parking lot, and the car is already started—engine rumbling and music blasting. I get the backseat, but I don't care. I haven't earned shotgun status; I'm lucky to be getting a ride. The windows are down, wind whipping through the car, and bass rumbles the car, the seat, my body. Street lamps light up the highway until the road narrows to two lanes, and our headlights illuminate the dark roads. Hardly anyone passes in the other lane. I look for signs to Pinebluff, but we make it to The Grange without proof that such a town lies anywhere nearby.

The Grange is packed. The parking lot is dirt, and there's dust in the air from vehicles running over it in the dry, warm weather. There are more trucks on premises than anything else, and I can hear the music playing before we hit the door. It's unfamiliar, it's twangy, and I realize as Rob nods at the guy at the door and tells him that I'm with them, the dance floor is full. Charlie and Jess have already arrived, and I'm struck at how different Jess looks—if not for Charlie, I might not have recognized her.

Her hair falls just below her shoulders, in auburn curls. Her plaid flannel shirt is taken in at the waist and the sleeves are rolled up to her elbows. Her jeans are dark washed and look almost painted on her hips. She's wearing cowboy boots and dark lipstick. She looks so overtly feminine, and it hits me as absurdly funny.

Her glare shoots daggers my way. "What?"

My shoulders shake. I can't stop myself. "You just normally look like my superior officer. Tonight you look like a girl."

Her gaze narrows and doesn't get happier. "I am a girl."

I shrug and cough out the end of a laugh. "Yeah, but it's like you're my sister or something. I don't notice it so much."

"You don't have a sister, do you? Because if you did, she would have beat you if you ever said something like that."

Charlie listens to our conversation, amused at the exchange. I'm not sure if he finds her ire cute or my lack of interest pleasing, but he smiles as he pulls her in at the waist with his arm and kisses her cheek. "You're all woman to me, no matter what you're wearing. The less the better."

I pretend to gag, but she turns to him, mollified and appreciative.

He kisses her cheek. "Let's dance."

She thinks about the offer. "Let me kick Dugrey's ass first. It won't take long."

"Hey!" I say, dodging her attempt to connect her elbow with my ribs. "Charlie, wrangle your woman. Please!" I yelp as she makes another pass.

"You need to learn right quick not to piss off southern women," Charlie laughs at my fear and wraps both arms around her waist from behind, lifting her slightly as if she weighs near-to-nothing and swiveling her away from me. They hit the dance floor, hopefully a distraction that will save me a few bruises. The music is up tempo, the sound is heavy on violin—fiddle?-and guitars that strum and pluck. The sound of hard soled shoes fill in the foreground noise as the dancers spin and step. I try to listen, but I can't make out if the guy is singing about a truck or a woman. I continue up to the bar, where Rob hands me a beer—one of two in his hands. I'm surprised, I assume he got one for Jack instead of me.

Jack's nowhere to be found, however. I figure he's lost in the masses. "Thanks. So, this is where you guys usually come?"

Rob regards me with cool indifference. "You don't like it?"

I take a sip of beer and look around. The beer is light and cold. It will take more than a couple to make me drunk. But the night is young. "I didn't say that. It's different than what I'm used to, is all."

Rob snorts out a response. "I bet it is. What are the parties like up there? Where are you from again? New Haven?"

"Hartford. The parties are full of entitled rich kids with too much money and very little attention spans."

He nods. "Partying while their parents are away?"

"Pretty much. Hard to find parents that are around, most of the time."

"Poor little rich kids," he says, before taking a swig of beer.

I can't bring myself to argue my case. I embody what he seems to loathe, or I did until very recently. I decide to change the subject. "Where's Jack?"

Rob keeps scanning the crowd. I assume he's scoping for a girl to hit on. The crowd is a mix of couples and singles, and it's clear that those who aren't a part of a pair are hoping to find a partner in the throng. The music remains upbeat, but now the lyrics are about damage done to a cheating lover's property. "We'll pick him up later. He likes to hit another club, not far from here."

"Divide and conquer?" I ask. It's not a bad plan, to avoid stepping on toes. Which is literally what I will most likely be doing if I attempt these dance steps with anyone. I learned how to steer a girl around a ballroom for cotillion purposes, but this style of dancing is nothing like what I know. Feet are stepping in quick sub beats and girls are twirling so fast they look like they're going to spin off to another partner. Lots of the guys are wearing cowboy hats, and it's not an ironic nod to being in a country bar. These people are the real deal.

"Something like that," he says, but his tone of voice is off somehow. "There she is."

I look up to see who he's talking about. He's already caught her eye across the room, and she's smiling. "She's cute."

He elbows me and cocks his head toward me, without taking his eyes off her. "College girl. Her roommate's cousin tends bar here."

"Does she know how old you are?" I ask, already guessing the answer.

"It hasn't come up. I just told her I was military."

"That works?" I ask, but he's already getting up to cross the bar. It's only getting more packed in here. I watch as he saunters over and starts flirting. She giggles at something he says, and part of me is jealous. I want something that easy. Thinking about an unattainable girl that's already forgotten about me isn't really a cure for lonely nights.

Picking up girls is not a problem for me, at least not in Hartford. At Chilton, everyone knows my name, my general net worth, and my projected future, and it is easy as showing up at the right party to gain my choice of feminine attention for an evening.

Standing at the bar nursing a beer, I realize yet again that I am no longer in my element. I am not from this world, and my navigation around it has been bumpy at best. Getting into an inadvertent bar fight is not the way to thank my new friends for letting me tag along. I'm grateful-I needed to get off campus. The girls around me are reminding me that I have other needs as well. Even when I was hopeful that Rory might give me a chance last spring, I didn't go without the affection of other girls. An evening spent cozying up to one of these ladies might ease the lonely nights in my dorm room.

"Rookie and a wallflower? Say it ain't so."

I turn to see Jess has returned, flagging down a bartender for a glass of water. Charlie must be in the men's room. I wonder if it has some made up moniker, like bulls or studs or something, on the door.

"How did you learn to do that?" I ask, gesturing to the crowd.

"What? Dance? Don't tell me you've got two left feet," she gives me a pouty lip in pity. I can tell she's been drinking. She's happy and a little sarcastic.

"I can dance," I argue. "Just not like… that." I gesture to the dance floor again. The words boot-scooting boogie are being repeated over the speakers. Everyone out there seems to know the same dance. I frown.

She laughs. "You Yankees."

"I'm being judged for my place of birth?" I ask. We're having to lean in to shout in the other's ear to have this conversation.

Her expression is not forgiving. "You just need to get out there and try it."

"Will you show me?"

She laughs at me. "If you laid one hand on my hip, Charlie would take you out back and rip you limb for limb."

I roll my eyes. I hate asking for help, but continuing to do so is torture. "It's just a dance."

"Dancing is intimate. It's putting your hands on someone and sharing space and time," she said. Her tone was a mix of her usual matter-of-fact realism and an almost dreamy romanticism.

"I'm not looking to merge my soul with someone out there, I just want to dance with a girl without bruising her toes."

"I'm hardly the only girl here. You're not bad looking—I'm sure any one of these girls would love to show you how it's done," Jess assures me.

"You think I'm attractive?" I ask, a little surprised.

"Like you need anyone to tell you that," she says, with a heavy eye roll. She takes a long pull on her water.

I shrug a shoulder, still confused. "Even if you thought so, I thought you were still mad at me."

She shakes her head and smiles as Charlie comes back into view. "You've been through a rough time. I get that. And we all needed to blow off steam, so let's just chalk everything up to that. Go ask a pretty girl to dance. One that doesn't have a better option in sight. I'm happy to help you out when I can, but on the dance floor, I'm spoken for."

I clear my throat and can't help but give her a friendly smile. "Go. God, it's nauseating to watch you two. Let me drink in peace."

She laughs as she steps off to meet Charlie again. Rob's dancing with his college girl. There's still no sign of Jack. The music changes to a slow, hazy tune. The whole place gets quieter, and the couples get closer. The whole mood of the place softens. I order a second beer.

It's not until I take my first sip that I notice that someone has just come up to the edge of the bar, just to my left. And I freeze. I'm staring at hazel eyes rimmed with mascaraed lashes.

"Tristan. Hey."

It's Bailey. In civilian clothes. My mouth goes dry, despite the fact I just swallowed. She's ordering a soda from the bartender and I take the opportunity to really look at her. Not only are her clothes flattering, but she's wearing a dress that doesn't quite fall to her knees. With cowboy boots. I never thought cowboy boots could be considered sexy, but I'm suddenly converted. She wears a cropped denim jacket over her light dress. I decide that I love the weather that allows for sundresses to be worn year-round. Jesus.

"Having fun?"

She doesn't have to yell, because it's nowhere near as loud as it had been. The crowd is muted by the slow song. Her hair is down, falling in blonde waves halfway down her back. I nod, as if I've been struck mute.

She smiles and looks out over the crowd. I watch her under the guise of taking another drink. She starts to sway a little, back and forth, in time with the music. She likes this song.

"Do you want to dance?"

I turn my head suddenly, away from Bailey. Someone has approached me, and I vaguely recognize her as one of the girls that were with Rob's college friend. I glance over toward him, and he gives me a thumbs up. I hear Jess in my head, her heeding not to flirt with Bailey. Bailey, who standing so close, who wasn't supposed to be here—who doesn't need me disrupting her shell. I want to know so much about her, but I'm resolved to give her all the space she needs.

I need to dance. I put my beer on the bar and leave Bailey alone, and let a very nice girl show me how to navigate a country dance floor.


	3. Seldom Does Complete Truth Belong to Hum

Story: Pinehurst

Chapter 3: Seldom Does Complete Truth Belong to Human Disclosure

Summary: Set right after Run Away Little Boy. Tristan heads to North Carolina, to military school. A look at his life as he makes the jump from troubled bad boy with a trust fund to military cadet in the midst of his reform. Not a Trory. OC, with the exception of the Dugreys and the occasional Gilmore reference. Tristan-centric.

Rating: T. For language for sure. Possible adult situations later on.

I learn that Jess had to turn in a report about me to administration, a debriefing on her week spent overseeing my transition. Being that I'm still on probation—not because of my scrape with the law, but as a new student regulation described to be as for my benefit as well as the school's—I am to meet with the Dean of Students every week for my first ninety days.

Our first meeting is Monday morning, between calisthenics and morning mess. I report on time, refreshed from my two days of downtime. I think back over my first weekend here, a blur of unexpected activity. I sleep in on Saturday, relishing the lack of trumpeting brass instruments and blaring alarm clock. I wake instead to the in-pouring of natural light across my pillow. I spend the day largely in my room, studying both coursework and the academy handbook. I leave my room only for meals and to go for a run. At dinner, Jess asks me if I'll be at chapel Sunday morning, assuring me the Chaplain can cover any denominational needs I might have. Then she explains what denominational even means, thanks to the blank expression on my face.

My family doesn't have a religious affiliation, though my mother likes to go to mass on Christmas Eve and Easter at a huge Catholic cathedral in Hartford, St. Joseph's. Whenever I ask her why, she gets a misty look in her eyes, murmurs about her grandmother, and makes a martini. Straight up with two olives. My father joins her only in the martinis, never the masses.

I would feel more at home at an Ala-Non meeting than a church service, but they all look at me so expectantly, so I agree. Early Sunday morning, I spend an hour in a hard pew listening to what the Chaplain refers to as wisdom from the Good Book, alongside Jess, Charlie, Rob, and Jack. I sit on the end and share a hymnal with Jack, who Rob and I picked up at truck stop at three in the morning after leaving The Grange, smelling like clove smoke and beer and holding a bag full of boiled peanuts and MoonPies for the ride home.

I pull myself from my thoughts as I sit in a small office, my legs cramped to one side. To allow the door to shut, my chair is pulled uncomfortably close to the Dean's desk. She, however, has enough room to recline nearly all the way back without hitting her window. I keep my discomfort to myself. I mostly just want to hear what Jess has to say about me.

Her expression gives nothing away about my perceived progress. "So, Tristan. How was your first week?"

She wears reading glasses and looks up from the document in front of her. There are also a couple of loose files on her desk and I'm sure her computer has something pulled up about me. Though, for all I know she's just browsing tabloids or world news online. She has a cup of coffee in her other hand, and the smell fills my senses. I'm dying for a cup. I would drink coffee occasionally in Hartford, upon the collision of a late night and an early morning, but it's a morning ritual here.

I am learning it takes little time to make such hard habits. Though it seems like I've been here longer than a week. Things in Hartford seem small and distant as I sit in this office starting a new week. Really, the only thing I miss from my old daily routine is driving my car. Everything else is tinged with regret and easier not to think about.

Thing like my parents. Like Rory Gilmore. Like my so-called friends. No one has reached out to me since I've been here. I haven't gotten a single email, post card, or telegram from anyone. My fellow cadets get mail, care packages, and phone calls. I get dead air. Probably, for now, it's for the best. I need time and space. I need to clear my head. I need to figure out how I'm going to proceed from here—what version of myself will emerge from this experience. Once I ease out of the survival mode I am operating in for now.

"My first week was intense," I answer simply. It is, perhaps, a gross oversimplification, but it is still true.

"Entering a new school mid-semester is often challenging. Certainly the first few weeks at Pinehurst at any point are an adjustment. But it seems you're doing well in your classes so far. And making friends," she said, clearly pleased with my progress.

"Yes, Ma'am." Tentative friends at best, but I already can't imagine my time here without them.

"We encourage students to take some time before choosing extracurricular activities. There's a campus fair on the second week of classes in the fall, but I've gathered some pamphlets for you to take with you and review. If you have any questions or wish to meet with any of the faculty advisers, I can help you with that. I see you didn't partake in many at your old school. It is a requirement here, as well as volunteer work. You'll need to pick something to lend your time and support to, to meet your quota. We can talk more about that next week as well."

I nod and reach for the stack of paperwork she has prepared for me. "Yes, Ma'am."

She offers me a half smile. "You've met with your mentor I see. He will be a good resource for developing your interests as well. Be sure to take advantage of these contacts. We're here to help you succeed."

"Thank you. I will, Ma'am."

She shuts the file and folds her hands over it. "Do you have any questions or concerns at this time?"

I have plenty of questions, but only one I find appropriate to ask her. "Winter break is coming. I'm not sure … is it possible for students to stay on campus over the break?"

She frowns and cocks her head. "You don't want to go home?"

"I," I pause and take a deep breath. I don't want emotions to enter into it. "It's complicated. My parents usually travel over the holidays, and I'm not sure what they … what the plans are yet. If I need to, is it possible to stay on campus?"

She nods, wiping surprise from her expression. "Some students do stay. It's not the customary practice, but your room is your room through the end of the school year in June. All facilities are limited to holiday schedule during the break, however. You'd have to provide most of your own meals. There are a few other considerations. You get a hold of your parents, and if you need to stay, let me know as soon as possible and we'll make the necessary preparations."

I stand. "Thank you."

I leave her office and head off to meet everyone at the mess hall. Everyone, at least, except for Bailey. Given that she doesn't live on campus, she's exempt from morning calisthenics and she has breakfast at home. She only joins us for dinner a few times a week. She also attends her home church, back in Pinebluff, or so it was explained to me by Jack between hymns at chapel.

I am lost in thought as I walk. Most of my questions revolve around Bailey. I still have no idea why she showed up at The Grange on Friday night, after telling Jess she couldn't make it. Her presence is something I want to investigate, but my chance Friday dissolved as she left while I was under the dance tutelage of Kristy, a friend of Rob's college girl.

Kristy is not someone I'll see again; she's just a random girl visiting friends for the weekend before returning to school at the University of Georgia. Kristy loves military guys and my New England accent. Girls like her are the perfect distraction, given that even if I do join my friends regularly at The Grange, there is little to no chance of ever running into her again. Everything about our time together is meant to be a footnote from start to finish, never to be repeated—from the way we dance a little too close, laugh a little too much, and conclude the evening with a heavy make-out session that starts next to the jukebox and ends out in her pickup, parting without so much as a goodbye.

By the time the girls leave and last call comes around, Bailey is long gone. I never see her out on the dance floor, and I don't dare ask Jess about it. By the time Jack climbs in the car with the snacks he gets for our drive home during his wait at the truck stop, my thoughts drift out the window as we speed by the countryside, in relaxed silence.

"Where do you volunteer?"

I choose Jess first, because I have the first opportunity to have a real conversation with her. And thanks to the last week full of school-mandated observation, the best rapport. The guys and I get along fine, but we haven't had much in the way of deep conversations. It is a result of Jess' duty to take a vested interest in me, even if just for a week, and my connection to the guys is still taking shape. We get along, we have a few laughs, but we tend to stick to topics like our workouts and classes and the academy in general. I've revealed very few items of a personal nature, and mostly to Jess. I've never fully opened up to anyone, not really. Most of my old friends tend to use confidences as options for blackmail. It is smarter, safer, to keep anything of importance to myself. It's not in my nature to ask for help, to make myself vulnerable. I continue to fight to break so many bad habits, even the kind that are self-preservation. Habits are far harder to break than form.

"The crisis pregnancy center near the base," she answers automatically, rifling through her notebooks. She selects two, puts them in her bag, and zips it up. She only looks at me when she finishes her task. "Why?"

Her face is bare in comparison to Friday night, and even to her toned down version for chapel. If she's wearing any make-up now, it's neutral, light, and virtually invisible. She looks just like my mental image of her again. I almost don't want to see Bailey in her uniform—I prefer to keep her as she is in my mind; in that dress and those boots, with her hair hanging loose down her back.

"I'm supposed to choose a place to donate my time. I don't really know what my options are."

She starts walking. "There's a display at the student center. A few places get full up, like the Boys and Girls Club and the Y and the library. Lots of places are always looking, though."

I nod, realizing she's being helpful, if only in a perfunctory sense. After a moment of silence between us, as we continue our walk to class, she sighs. "I take it you've never had to volunteer before?"

I scratch at my jaw, still soft from my daily close shave. Another school requirement. I don't think they mind the facial hair so much as they want to drill in as many daily routines as possible. "It was encouraged, for padding college applications. But I'm a legacy, so I never really … cared, I guess."

She glances at me and shakes her head a little. "You were a real piece of work, weren't you?"

I don't argue, but I can't help but smirk. "I had my moments."

"Fifteen hours a week is a big commitment. It should be something you're passionate about, or that you at least find worthwhile. And hopefully, something that utilizes your natural talents. Do you have any of those?" she jokes.

Internally, and probably externally as well, I cringe. "Maybe I should head to the student center and see if anything catches my eye."

She clucks her tongue at me. "I weep for the entitled and the unskilled," she said as she enters the classroom ahead of me.

There are too many options. I can hardly believe so many different places need volunteers, let alone that high school students are capable of filling these roles. There is an actual wall filled with tiered holders, all stuffed with pamphlets from local area organizations in need of free staff. I arrive right after classes end for the day, thinking I'll pick a few ideas up before heading over to meet the guys in the weight room. Instead I'm drowning in glossy tri-folds.

"Tristan?"

I look up to see Bailey standing on the landing of the stairs off to my right. It's the main staircase that goes up all three levels of the building. It's wide enough to accommodate crowds of people heading either direction at once along its dark wood steps and carved rails. Matching finials of intricately carved lion heads bookend the bottom of the staircase, serving as focal points upon entry to the grand building.

She is obviously on her way out, pausing at the edge and holding onto the rail, like she's petting the lion. It's not the first time I've seen her today—she was at lunch and in class—but it's the first time I've seen her randomly on campus. She's holding car keys in one hand, clutching them tightly. She's probably on her way home.

"Hey. Hi."

I'm in constant amazement at my inferior conversation starters with this girl. It doesn't help that she makes me nervous, but I also have Jess in my head, warning me to leave Bailey alone. Loudly. Lunch today is fresh in my mind, her studying in silence right next to me, as if I do not exist. It soothes my ego only slightly that she doesn't speak to anyone at lunch. She finishes the play, which puts her a good two weeks ahead of schedule of the syllabus.

She takes a step down, off the staircase and into the segregated lobby area where I'm cloistered. Me and my dizzying array of pamphlets. I clear my throat.

"Decide on anything?" she asks. It's obvious what I'm doing here, and I'm grateful that she's adept at proper ice-breakers since I have apparently forgotten such things. So much for my good breeding and society training.

I stare back at the wall of options. My eyes unfocus slightly, and all the colors and words blend together, just for a second, until I adjust my vision. I frown at the endless array of information. "Not really. I'm not really sure what I'd be good at."

She nods and takes another step in closer to me and the pamphlets. "Volunteering isn't about showcasing your strengths. You get more out of it when you step outside your comfort zone. Volunteering is about the people you can help. That's what makes it gratifying."

She doesn't speak much, but she's got a perfect record for rendering me speechless when she speaks. I want to tell her this, but I am positive I would muddle up the sentiment with the wrong words. Instead, I try not to stare at her. I look down at the papers in my hands before I look back at her. "Where do you volunteer?"

"The hospital," she remarks calmly. She thinks for a second and expands on her answer. "I don't like blood. Or the smell—sick people and the industrial disinfectants all mixed together. But people in hospitals are usually scared and the people who love them are scared and also hate the smell and the food and the idea of something bad happening to their loved ones. I volunteer in the waiting rooms on the surgical ward. I sit with people and try to listen or hold someone's hand or get them something decent to eat or read, or make sure they get updates on the surgery. Whatever they need. Whatever I can do to help make their time there sufferable."

I look at her, and I see something I have never noticed before. Something that has nothing to do with what she's wearing or the color of her eyes or anything physical. It's like I'm seeing something underneath all that, who she really is. Under her shell. Something not everyone else sees. I smile at her, without any posturing or hope to gain something from her. She's already offered me something pretty great. She rewards me with a smile of her own, soft and demure as it is.

"So, I should really be trying to figure out what scares me."

"Everything you want is on the other side of fear," she says, clearing quoting the wisdom she's read somewhere.

"What is that, Winston Churchill? FDR? General Patton?" I guess.

Her smile widens and she takes a step away. "Jack Canfield. _Chicken Soup for the Soul_. It's very popular in hospital waiting rooms."

She waves and then she's gone. I grab three pamphlets and double-time it back to my room to change into workout clothes. I make it with thirty seconds to spare and a lot to think about while we lift weights.

My mind stays on track, mulling over topics that make me uncomfortable. Things I don't want to deal with, or at least have been happy to leave in the past. Dealing with my parents, working on that relationship, is first and foremost on that list. It is almost a relief to think that they'd written me off, by sending me away and not having to discipline me themselves. But what that means for our dealings with each other from here on out is completely undefined. It's more like a gaping wound than anything else.

I head to the pay phone after dinner. I call collect, which seems fitting seeing as I have no source of income and they have money that they'll never need. It is an outright misconception that because my family is rich that I, as well, am wealthy. The truth is, I have nothing. It's my parents who control the money and I merely reap the benefits, wholly unchecked. Until last week, that is. It is a family tradition, passing the wealth on and managing it and finding ways to add to it. I am the first Dugrey heir to be separated like this, not only from access to money, but from the lifestyle, the family itself.

The maid answers and sounds only slightly surprised when she agrees to accept the charges. It's not a common job function of hers, accepting collect calls. No one has ever called my parents collect, not that I know of. I might have, from jail, had the cops been a little more into scaring us straight the night we were caught breaking into the safe. Luckily for me, Hartford runs on the Old Boys Club rules. Instead of offering my fingerprints, I remember only sitting in the den across from the safe for a few minutes waiting for my father to arrive.

"Tristan?"

It's my mother. She says my name like she's disassociated with me. Like I'm a long-lost cousin or someone she remembers from high school. Someone she once knew well, but has long since lost touch with.

"Mom. Hi."

"Are you alright? Did something happen? Are you in trouble?"

Typical motherly questions, but not ones my mother asks of me. Especially with such concern. She is not the one that consoles me when I'm upset or cares for me when I'm hurt. My parents employ a staff for such inconveniences. Apparently it's hard to get bodily fluids out of her designer clothing. The only intimate memory I associate with my mother is the smell of Chanel No. 5 on nights when she would come in my bedroom to kiss me goodnight before heading out for an evening. And I have no memory of her doing that past the age of seven.

"I'm fine, Mom."

"Oh," she says, relief filling the receiver. "Thank goodness."

It is best if I do not prolong this. Making decisions about my life is not my mother's forte. My mother defers to my father on all matters other than fashion and diet; it would be easier to ask for him directly. Except, I find, I have no interest in making this easy on them. If they really don't want me to come home, I want them to have to admit it to me out loud.

"We have a break coming up. Winter break," I add for clarity.

"When exactly is that?" she asks, and I can hear her thumbing through what is most likely her social calendar.

"It's Christmas. It's the same day, every year."

My tone shifts, dark and annoyed. I recompose myself and add, "My finals end on the eighteenth. Have you and Dad made plans?"

"I have been running myself ragged, making plans and interviewing additional staff. With everything that's happened, we're struggling to keep on top of things."

My mother does not do ragged. She will succumb on occasion to exhaustion and disappear to a spa for a few weeks. But her meaning is clear: this is my fault. I am the source of disruption. I sigh. "I just need to know if you guys expect me to join you. I can stay here."

"You have to come home," she says, too immediately. It's a panicked sort of order.

I do not groan, but my head falls back against the wall with a dull thud and I close my eyes. "Are you sure?"

"Tristan, you are coming home for Christmas. It's a very important time for your father."

I do not think of my father as being the sort to get into the Christmas spirit. If anything, he is better suited to portray Mr. Scrooge, without the Christmas morning change of heart. "Have you guys talked about this? Because if it would be better, I can stay on campus. I just have to make arrangements in time."

She does not relent. "Absolutely not. I will have your father's office make flight arrangements for you in the morning. I'm writing it down now. Your father needs you here. We need to present a united front as a family. Your role is not inconsequential. It's important that we show that you have learned from your mistakes and now you're a part of this country's proud military heritage."

My head hurts from her verbal patriotic spiel. "What?"

She hesitates. I can hear her pen tapping against the table. "Didn't your father tell you before he came home?"

"Tell me what?" I ask. I don't mention that we did not even say goodbye, let alone convey any important messages before his departure.

"He's making his bid for senator. It's been in the works for months now. He's making his announcement at the Mayor's Ball. You have to be there, and you have to bring a date."

Right. That's an easy order to fill from hundreds of miles away. My annoyance resurfaces and mixes with disbelief from her proclamation. "Since when is he running for the Senate? I don't see why I have to be there. I'm not running for office."

"Tristan, if his own family is not there to support him at every opportunity, how can he expect to gain the public's backing?"

"And the importance of my bringing a date would be," I lead.

"I do not have time to argue with you. I have a list of caterers to call and venues that are already full to convince to squeeze us in to host fundraisers for each of the new campaign contributors that have come in of late. I have no idea why your father couldn't have announced his candidacy in January. Nothing is booked in January."

I don't argue that point. In January, I'll be back on campus, starting a new semester. I will not be behind, trying to catch up and learn my way around with too many choices ahead of me. I am a long way from being a seasoned cadet, but it is less of a struggle each day. I am more confident in my actions. I am not up for any commendations, but I'm not making an ass of myself. Most of the time.

"Anything else I should be aware of?" I ask. I don't mention that there has been no communication from them on this or any other front, and it isn't like I get the Hartford papers delivered daily to my room. I'm blindsided by this news. My mother is acting like my father has always held political aspirations, but I can't imagine him being held to public scrutiny. I can only imagine he has a whole house full of skeletons tucked away somewhere that would eradicate any political aspirations. It would surprise me less to find out he had a second family somewhere. Just like ours, with a wife that defers to his wishes and a half-sibling that hates him as much as I do. It might be nice, actually, to have someone that understands me on such a level. No one hates my dad as much as I do.

"I'll fill you in when you get here. Just do well on your exams and stay out of trouble. It does your father no good if you're not pulling yourself together down there."

Her concern for my welfare only really depends on the blow-back on them and their lives. Their plans. His plans, and his precious upcoming bid for senator. I feel sick to my stomach. I just want to put distance between us again, more than the six hundred fifty-four miles. I want oceans and continents. I settle for silence for now.

"I need to go. Someone else is waiting to use the phone," I lie. She's never been able to tell if I'm being truthful or not, not from my voice or my behavior. She doesn't know me well enough.

We hang up without protest on her end, and I find myself too keyed up to go back to my room and sit still. I can't study, my mind is racing. I head out of the building and across campus to the athletic fields. I hit the track in a run, warmed up by my fast pace on the way. My mind goes blank when I run. All I hear is the wind in my ears and the falls of my feet. I don't notice anyone else until I go around for the third time. I stop and stretch, waiting for the familiar figure to round its way over to my position on the track. I fall into place beside Jack, picking up my pace to meet his. He's not running as fast as I had been, or at his own top speed. When he's all out, he's damn fast. Normally I can't match his pace, but now we run side by side. I'm grateful for the concession on his part.

"Do you usually hit the track after dinner?"

He shrugs and glances over at me. "Sometimes. What's up with you? You look pissed."

I mutter under my breath. "I called home."

"That bad, huh?" He holds no judgement, but rather a sense of empathy.

I laugh, if the strangled, angry sound can be counted as such. "I think I would actually prefer it if my family didn't want me to come home for the winter break. That's messed up, isn't it?"

He hesitates for a minute before answering, but he keeps running. "I'm the wrong guy to ask. My parents told me not to show my face at home again."

I jerk my head toward him. "Serious?"

He slows to a stop. I stop next to him, and he stares out at the lit up buildings on the other side of campus. Classes are done for the day, but people are still around, meeting and studying and becoming better citizens. My thoughts drift back to my parents. The notion of my father being elected to represent anyone other than the pompous and the elite—the high society that he rubs shoulders with and the high-price crooks he defends in court—it's laughable. My mother wants me to support him, but even if I could vote, I'd vote for anyone else.

It hits me then, in that moment. I'll be eighteen by next November. The bastard is going to expect me to vote for him. Probably to campaign for him this summer. If they want me home for Christmas, they'll want me home for summer. My mind recoils. I need a bigger distraction than running provides. I focus on Jack, who has gone very quiet.

"Over Thanksgiving, when I went home, I told my family about my boyfriend."

I wonder suddenly if any parents approve of their children, or if that only happens in bad sitcoms and sappy novels. "They didn't take it so well, then?"

Jack laughs, but it's as bitter as mine. "Nope. My dad threw me out, after he made sure I knew that I disgust him. Luckily, I'm here on a full scholarship, so they can't fuck that up. If I didn't have this place, my life would be falling apart."

I know the feeling. I don't like to think what my life would be like right now had I stayed in Hartford after my near-arrest. Being underage, not telling my parents is not an option when the cops arrive. "Did you know, before you decided to tell them, how your parents would react?"

Jack gets quiet again and runs a hand over his scalp. His hair looks freshly shorn. "Yeah, I did. I mean, I hoped, since it was their son, they'd be … I don't know. Different than how they are. Different than they've always been. Stupid, right?"

I shake my head. "Not stupid. I've wished the same thing, pretty much my whole life. I'm not who my parents want me to be, either. Not by a long-shot."

He nods. He's still in the throes of dealing with this development. He is being ostracized by his family, but in a far harsher way than me. And for something he can't control. My parents' method of kicking me out is a very WASP-y reaction to my actions. Sending me to boarding school is a far cry from disowning me. And to be honest, it is a result of a series of awful decisions on my part. I still can't retrace my thinking from that night, my reasons for breaking into that safe, but I do know that it was my choice.

"So, why did you tell them then? I mean, if you knew they'd freak out?"

"I got tired of hiding it from people that were close to me. I wasn't hiding it from anyone but them at that point. I'd met his parents, but I couldn't bring him home and introduce him as anything more than my friend, and that felt dishonest. He's so much more than that. I couldn't be myself, in my own home. That's all I wanted."

I gesture around us. "What about here?"

Jack shrugs at me. "What about here?"

I feel self-conscious at my own ignorance suddenly. "Do people know? Can you be open about it here?"

"As open as I want to be. My friends know. Rob, Charlie, and the girls. They're cool about it. I don't make a big deal about it, because it's not all I am. I don't want to march in pride parades or any of that stuff or make the school conform to my social life. It's just a part of who I am. It's not an issue of being open at school—he doesn't go here. He goes to public school, back home."

"You're from South Carolina?" I ask. I can actually tell from his accent, having been here just long enough to notice a slight difference in the different variations of the Southern drawl. He, Charlie, and Bailey have the closest variations of speech. Her town is just on the border between the two Carolinas. After not seeing evidence of it roadside on our trip, I admit to checking a map.

He nods. "He meets me most weekends. I've asked him to come up and visit, but he doesn't have his own car, and his parents won't let him come stay, even just for a night. They set the same rules for all their kids—dating is fine, but they enforce curfews and forbid overnight stays. Being gay is one thing in their eyes, but premarital cohabitation in any way, shape, or form is another can of beans."

The last part strikes me as funny, but the situation is anything but. It must be hard enough to sustain a relationship long distance with supportive families. "Wow. Sorry, man. So are you staying on campus for all of winter break?"

Jack looks a little untethered still. "I don't know. Jess invited me to come home with her when she found out, and so did Charlie. Rob's family is heading to Arizona to be with his grandparents, or he probably would have made me agree to join him, too. It'd be weird, though, being with someone else's family like that."

"I'm guessing your boyfriend's strict parents won't let you stay, either."

Jack smiles. "No, but they did ask me to come over on Christmas day. Which is why I'm leaning toward staying here and doing that."

"For what it's worth, I wish I were staying here and keeping you company. I just found out I have no choice but to go home and support my father's bid for candidacy. He's running for senate, apparently, because his ego has superseded his connection to reality."

Jack raises an eyebrow. "Not because he's an upstanding leader of men?"

I scoff. "Hardly. But it does make more sense, now, his sending me here. He's trying to preserve his image. Having a son not in jail, but rather in one of the finest military academies in the nation is definitely a plus for his professional projection. It's the easiest way to sweep my transgressions under the rug for him."

"You must have been pissed when he shipped you off," Jack says. "Away from your whole life."

"I was. But I'm starting to realize I was pissed at him because that's my natural reaction to him and how he treats me. It's not specific to being here. I actually don't hate it here."

Jack and I continue to walk and we pass the gate of the field, heading toward the dorms. "Yeah, I heard you had a good time at The Grange," he snickers.

I smirk. "That didn't hurt. Did Rob tell you about that?"

Jack clears his throat and drops his eyes to the ground in front of his feet. "Actually, it was Bailey. We both work Sunday afternoon shifts at the hospital."

I stop, nearly stumbling in the process. I forget about the warm memories of the visiting college girl on and off the dance floor at the club. "Bailey?"

Jack nods and stares at me strangely. "You okay?"

"Yeah, I just, I'm surprised Bailey mentioned me. Like, at all. She barely said two words to me that night, then she disappeared. She wasn't even supposed to come, and she left so quickly."

Jack doesn't meet my eyes a second time. He's once again intent on the path in front of him, even though it's wide and flat and paved. "She has to be careful about when she goes out. And breaking curfew is never an option for her."

"So, wait. She talks to you about personal stuff?" I ask, a bit bewildered. I mean, yes, she's talked to me now. A few times, though I usually get the feeling she's always ready to get away from me as fast as she can. Her sharing about her volunteer work today is as personal as she's gotten with me, and she never lingers.

Jack chooses his words carefully. "Bailey takes her time getting to know people. She's got baggage."

"Who doesn't?" I ask, sounding bitter.

Jack stops and I mimic him. He considers me for a minute. "Bailey, she's been to hell and back. Look, she didn't stay because she came to hang out, but everyone was occupied. So she split."

I don't feel like I have any new answers, so I press on. "Why didn't she just stay and dance? It seemed like she wanted to. There were plenty of guys there."

Jack cringes ever so slightly. "Bailey doesn't do random hook-ups."

"Yeah, well, it wasn't like I could ask her to dance. Jess has this thing—she's convinced I'm into Bailey, and she keeps telling me to leave her alone. It's more of a direct order."

Jack frowns and rubs his temple. "Oh. That makes sense now."

"What makes sense?"

Jack levels a look at me. " _Do_ you have a thing for Bailey?"

I toss my hands in the air in frustration. "I don't even know Bailey! She's this mystery, always studying in her down time and rarely speaking, when she's around at all. When she does talk to me, it's something that blows me away. And I don't get why she doesn't date. She's beautiful. She's probably the most beautiful girl I've ever seen in my life. Which is a special brand of torture, given that she's always in a hurry to get as far away from me as possible."

When I finish I'm out of breath. It bothers me, the way she always disappears before we can really talk. Before I can get to know her. I notice the murky similarities to the last girl I brooded over. When Rory would tell me to go away, it felt like a game, cat and mouse. Bailey isn't playing a game. Not being able to get Rory remains a point of pride for me; the one girl at Chilton that would not go out with me. I'm not out to prove anything with Bailey. I just want to know her, to understand her.

Jack blinks after my verbal tirade. "Whoa. Man, that was… as descriptive as it was evasive."

I worry that Bailey sees the worst in me. I am usually more transparent than I like. "She hates me, doesn't she? Jess says she doesn't, but I don't believe her."

Jack hits me on the shoulder, catching my attention in full. We're back at his dorm. "You're the reason Bailey showed at The Grange in the first place, dumbass."

"But," I sputter. "She doesn't even date. Why," I begin, but I short-circuit. My brain hurts.

"Just because she doesn't do something doesn't mean she doesn't _want_ to do it. It's complicated. She has a lot of restrictions put on her, some from her family, some self-imposed. But trust me, she hasn't taken any risks, not since she started at Pinehurst."

"Which is why Jess wants me to stay away from Bailey? So I won't complicate her life somehow? Or make her take risks?"

"Jesus. Probably. The girl's life is complicated enough. And based on her reaction to the way you were glued to that other girl, Jess is warning the wrong person."

"Bailey left before we started making out. All she saw was us dancing," I say, remembering looking around and finding her gone.

"She came back. She'd forgotten to tell Jess something. She came back through and saw you by the jukebox. She tried to act like it didn't bother her, but I could tell … it did."

"How do you know?"

Jack blows out a breath. "She doesn't talk about guys. She wouldn't risk missing her curfew for just anything. She knew you were coming and wanted to see you. She's not going to put herself that far out there, though. The fact that she showed up, and she told me about it—that's how I know. You sort of have to know Bailey."

"So, what do I do?" I ask, feeling in need of all the guidance I can get. My life feels jammed, waiting for all these different trajectories to pull me free, toward something else. I can almost taste things I want, even as my parents try to keep their stake in my old future. Like a rubber band snapping me back from a great distance. Moving beyond it all feels just out of my reach. I am constantly being challenged to better myself at Pinehurst. More than that, I want that for myself. I want to be here, to be a part of this world. Part of Bailey's world.

"That depends," Jack says with an air of finality. "Do you like the girl or not?"


	4. Music Is a Higher Revelation Than All

Story: Pinehurst

Chapter 4: Music Is a Higher Revelation Than All Wisdom and Philosophy. (Beethoven)

Summary: Set right after Run Away Little Boy. Tristan heads to North Carolina, to military school. A look at his life as he makes the jump from troubled bad boy with a trust fund to military cadet in the midst of his reform. Not a Trory. OC, with the exception of the Dugreys and the occasional Gilmore reference. Tristan-centric.

Rating: T. For language for sure. Possible adult situations later on.

Hustle. It's my new mantra. It's my new way of life.

I no longer experience bouts of boredom. I no longer have time to fill. Even my downtime is meaningful. Who I chose to spend it with even more so. I am busy, my first couple of weeks on campus. I do my best to be in the right place at the right time, pay attention as best I can, and cram as much institutional knowledge as possible without forcing overload on my brain. Unbeknownst to me, people spend these two weeks holding back in the name of easing me in. It doesn't feel like it, but I realize later this is the case. At the end of my first month, as finals loom large over our heads, I shift into another category. A mix of refined focus and constant motion. I start to hustle.

I am no longer just a cadet. I am also a student, a volunteer at the Red Cross, the newest member of the cross country team, and on the waitlist to join the debate team once the new semester starts. I start to search through the student paper for any available campus jobs that I can bend around my schedule. I have no faith in the idea that playing nice—which I'm not sure I can even manage—over Christmas break will earn me any kind of regular allowance from my parents. As I'd like to keep up with my friends in our tiny amount of downtime, I'll need cash soon.

I still lift with the guys on days I don't have practice at the same time. Jack and I meet up frequently to run at the end of the day. Jack and I talk a lot, since our first one-on-one after my call to my parents. I feel more a part of the group as a whole now, getting to know each person separately and together, rather than just Jess' new add-on. Having friends like this, it's not something I knew I needed. Around these people I do not have to put up walls or guard myself against personal attack. It's not about social standing or any kind of messed-up hierarchy. Being with these people is fun and relaxing and damn near rehabilitative.

As for Bailey, I continue to be at a loss. Jack is sure that she wants to get to know me better, but something holds me back from finding out on my own—more than just Jess being against it. I don't want to be any kind of risk for Bailey. I don't know what she's gone through, but I trust Jess and Jack. I decide for now I'm happy to let something evolve between us on its own time, if it ever does. If I see a way in, that may change. I want to be a good guy in her life, but the few fleeting times I catch her smiling at me or laughing at something I say… I have all kinds of urges to throw caution to the wind. It's a good thing we are never left alone together, one on one. I'm working on my self-control, but it is not a natural talent of mine, especially around someone like Bailey.

She and I talk, in bits and pieces, but never about her witnessing my tryst with the college girl. I do, however, see it in her eyes, there is a filter that she regards me through. I don't see her off campus, as she doesn't join us at The Grange after that first outing, though the rest of us go every weekend. My dancing skills do not improve, as I do not put in the time practicing with anyone else. I seem to develop some sick form of hope, not born of positive reinforcement. I admit, I keep one eye on the door most nights, hoping she'll show. It never happens.

Being Bailey's protector is a well-versed talent. No one from our little group mentions anything specific about her to me, nothing of a truly personal nature. Even where she spends the rest of her time remains a mystery to me for a few weeks. I know she volunteers at the hospital, but not where she works, other than that she does have a job. The school dictates that she's also in another extracurricular, and she goes home every night and on weekends. If I am feeling the hustle of my tightly packed days, she must be downright exhausted.

No one is perfect, however, and Charlie mentions Bailey's place of work Wednesday night at dinner. We are all talking about finals and Jack is bemoaning the unintelligible ramblings of Old English thrust upon us in lit class. Charlie says if he's really so confused to hit up Bailey at peer tutoring. The table gets quiet and I freeze, mid-swallow. I meet with Jack's eyes first, then I flicker to Jess. I finally swallow and clear my throat. "I didn't know Bailey was a peer tutor."

Jess jerks her thumb to the doors. "Sidebar."

I frown at her, not moving from my seat. "I'm not your charge anymore."

Charlie snorts and the other guys hide smiles. I glance at them, a sour niggling at the back of my head reminding me that I'm wrong. Not because one of our points of view are more correct than the other-I'm just not going to win this argument. Ever. I stand up and toss my napkin down, pushing my chair in politely before walking calmly over to where she's waiting.

"Yes?" I ask with great restraint.

"You do not need a tutor. I've seen your transcripts, and even with the dip your grades took before you left your old school, they paint a picture of someone who does not need tutoring."

I lift one shoulder and crack my mouth open at the corner. "I did miss a lot of the first semester material. Our test is cumulative. It isn't the worst idea I've ever had."

There is no hesitation on her part. No benefit of the doubt. "Yes, it is."

"You're really advising me against getting tutoring to help me study for finals?" I ask, trying to catch her in a web of logic.

"Getting tutoring is not a terrible idea. But having Bailey tutor you is."

I feign confusion. "She isn't a good tutor?"

Jess pokes me hard in the chest. "Will you just admit that you like her already?"

I open my hands apart wide. "Fine. I like her. Happy?"

"No!" Jess half shouts, half groans.

"Why is it so bad?" I ask. I'm not posturing. I view these people as friends. I'd like to think they at least respect me enough not to warn girls away from dating me. I'm not the same guy that exists in the minds of debutantes in Hartford. I can't even bring myself to call any number of girls who would give their eyeteeth to be on my arm at the freaking Mayor's Ball. It isn't that I can't get a date—I just don't want any of them.

Jess sort of shifts into the wall behind her. "You two are very, very different."

I nod, following so far. "So?"

Jess straightens up and puts on her diplomatic face. I know this face. She wears it in front of strange boys who appear before her in their underwear. Or maybe it's just reserved for me. "How many girls have you dated? And be honest."

I pause in thought. I am not so much counting as I see flashes of faces. I start wondering what constitutes a date in this scenario. Do trysts count? There are not names to all the faces. I realize Jess is tapping her foot and her arms are crossed over her chest. It is not a happy look.

"Do you need a calculator?" she asks, annoyed. "An abacus, perhaps?"

"It's not like I keep a list," I say, defending myself. That seems creepy. But it would make this exercise far easier.

"Most people don't need a list. And while I'm sure each of these girls was very special to you," she says, laden with and extra helping of sarcasm, "some girls aren't looking to be one of many, especially that many."

"You do an awful lot of talking for Bailey," I toss at her, matching her tone.

"She's my friend," she says, not backing down.

"So am I!" I nearly shout back. "I like her. It's not a crime. It's also not any kind of real threat, given that we've only said, like, twenty words to each other at most at any given opportunity. I'm not going to push myself on her. I just want to spend some time with her. Even if it's just talking about school work. I like being around her. Does that make me the worst person in the whole world?"

She eyes me warily. "Just. God. I can't believe I'm saying this, but you're my friend, too, so I will."

"Say what?" I ask, also tentative on the uptake. I don't blame her for getting so riled up because I know it comes from a good, if misguided, place. She thinks she knows who I am, but even I'm still learning who I want to be. Who I am becoming. It's like I've shed a skin, but I haven't gotten any new growth in its place. I just know I don't want my future behavior based off my past performance. I'm not proud of my past at all.

"If you aren't looking for something serious, if you'd rather just dance with girls at clubs and have your fun while you're here… don't lead Bailey on."

"Why are you so sure that's what I'd do?"

"I'm not judging. I'm not. I know Charlie and I are not the normal teenage experience. If it weren't for him, I'd probably be happy playing the field, too. I was until I met him. I can still count my relationships on two hands, unlike some other people," she shoots me a look.

"It's not _that_ many," I say with a sigh. She does not look convinced. "It's not!"

"She's not one of many."

"I agree," I say quietly. I am not trying to convince her or myself or anyone. I know so little about the girl, but I know she's a rare breed. Something bad has happened at some point in her life, and the idea of anyone being so hurtful to her to cause her friends to be so protective makes my stomach turn and my blood run hot.

But Jess will not offer any further details, as usual, and she seems satisfied by my answer. She does not try to dissuade me again, and I take pause. I consider staying away, keeping our interactions to class and lunch with the group. But in the end, I skip lifting weights and take my English lit coursework to the peer tutoring center in the student building after school. I sign up on the sheet and take my place in the waiting area.

I'm hit with second thoughts the moment I sit down. I try to see the situation through her filter. She has such a way of looking at me, like I'm something of interest that is best to keep at a distance, like an exotic animal at the zoo. Am I an arrogant guy in her estimation, out to take up her time for my own agenda? Back in Hartford, I would have ran such a ruse without so a single concern. False pretenses and the like, all in the name of face time with my intended target. I try to imagine Rory Gilmore available for tutoring sessions and me playing dumb, forcing her to sit across from me while I flirt and drop none-too-subtle hints about us taking off, going somewhere else, anywhere to be alone. I wouldn't feel bad about it.

But now. Nothing is the same—the situation, the school, the girl. Me. I reinforce my need for extra study time in my head, rehearsing my valid reasons for being in the peer tutoring room. It is open to all cadets. I qualify, and despite my complete and utter lack of free time of late, I do make my studies a priority now. As a cadet, I am required to maintain certain GPA and I have zero desire to be kicked out and forced back to Hartford, tail between my legs. Too much has changed for me to go back to my old life.

My brain goes notably blank as my name is called. I stand up quickly, a knee-jerk reaction of anxiety. It isn't Bailey, but a faculty adviser, checking my name off the sheet as she beckons me back. There are partitions everywhere, not only to separate the waiting area from the work space, but around each work area to help dampen voices and aid focus. There is a small table and two chairs at each station, and they are near capacity this close to finals. A lot of what appear to be freshman sit opposite older cadets, who are gesturing with the eraser end of pencils and offering encouragement in assuring, hushed tones.

"Third year lit class?"

I blink and nod. My nerves jump. "Yes. Shakespeare."

She clucks and turns left at the first partition. "Follow me."

She stops at a half-empty desk, where Bailey looks up and removes earbuds with a quick yank at our sudden presence. "I have a fresh victim."

Bailey smiles at the woman and nods. "Tristan. Hey."

"Ah, you know each other. Then my work here is done. I'll leave you to it."

The adviser disappears, off to match up more pairs of study session partners. There is no shortage of those in need. I imagine the line will line the corridor by the end of the week. I am glad of my haste in heading over and signing up.

"Have a seat," she says when I stand in place too long.

I slide my backpack on the floor and settle in the wooden chair adjacent to hers. I feel the need to act businesslike, as if this is a transaction as opposed to an ill-fated fact-finding mission. I should not be here. Even if part of her wants me here, I am forcing the issue. I should confess, right up front. I open my mouth, but her iPod slides down off her stack of books as she opens up to _A Midsummer Night's Dream_.

I reach out to catch it. The screen illuminates as my finger bumps a control. I furrow my brow at the song and band information. "Flatt and Scruggs?"

I immediately offer the device through an extension of my forearm toward her, her fingers brushing my palm as she takes it back before dropping it into the depths of the front pouch on her backpack.

"I like to listen to music between tutoring sessions. Helps me clear my mind so I can switch plays."

"I've never heard of that band. Are they local?" I ask. Hartford has a local music scene, as most big cities do, though I tend to lean toward more mainstream rock. I am starting to recognize certain country songs at The Grange. I don't love all of it, but I will admit that some of it is fun for dancing.

She stares at me in wild disbelief, as if I have just revealed myself to be some kind of extraterrestrial. "You've never heard of Flatt and Scruggs? Foggy Mountain Boys? Bill Monroe?" she asks, her accent filling out her words.

I shake my head, at a loss. "What genre are we talking?"

"Bluegrass."

"Is that like gospel music?" I ask, realizing Shakespeare isn't the only subject with which I need her expertise.

She laughs, her whole face lighting up. I don't feel that I'm being made fun of, and even if I am, I don't mind. "Not at all. Have you really never heard of bluegrass? It's mountain music, traditional ballads."

I do not hail from the mountains. Though my family does go skiing at Sugarloaf every other year when the powder is good. "Is it about God?"

Her giggles quiet, even though they were never loud. Her tone matches the mood of the room, showing she's accustom to the expected behavior of hushed tones. I wonder if she goes off topic with all her subjects, of if I'm different. I'm probably the only one not to know about bluegrass, at any rate.

"Sometimes. But not always. Sometimes it's about love or lament or pain or beauty. Sometimes all of it mixed together. Have you really never heard it before?"

I shake my head. She reaches into her bag and pulls out her iPod and scrolls to a particular song. She holds it out. "Would you like to?"

"Aren't we supposed to be talking about Shakespeare?" I ask.

"We will. But maybe this will help you clear your head, like it does for me."

I do not argue. Nothing about this girl makes me want to fight her. I want to soak up anything she'll give me. I ease the earbud into place, and she hits play. I listen with curiosity, but as the words began and this voice fills my head, I'm hit with the wonder of discovering something new. Something more than just music, what I hear is like a lyrical story being passed on and kept in a truer way than writing it down on a page. It isn't a long song, there is no unnecessary instrumentation, just a strumming of strings to keep time. Most of it is just the woman's voice, which relays pain and history and sorrow. When I remove the bud, I notice she's watching me expectantly.

"Did you like it?" she asks quietly.

I nod. "What was that called, the song?"

" _Wayfairin' Stranger_ ," she answers, dropping the device back in her bag. "Emmylou Harris."

"Where did you get into bluegrass?" I ask.

"It's all my dad plays, around the house, in his truck. Well, bluegrass or the Braves on AM radio."

I can't remember listening to the radio in a car with my parents. Usually they discuss some matter I have no interest in, and I take personal listening devices along with me. I like to drown my parents out completely, when at all possible. It is not an option I had on the way to Pinehurst, just silence or lectures, all of it awful.

I'm quiet for too long, and she shifts into tutor mode easily. "We can start with _A_ _Midsummer Night's Dream_ , unless you have specific problem with another play?"

I open my book and thumb through the pages absently. "It isn't anything specific I'm worried about. I mean, I'm not a big Shakespeare fan. I know the plays, in that I've read them all, at least the ones assigned in my classes. I just don't really… get them, I guess."

"How so?" she asks, genuinely wanting to help. It's her job, I remind myself. The devil on my shoulder loudly interjects that nothing about the little music lesson was job-related.

"Take _Romeo and Juliet_. It's supposed to be this amazing example of true love, right?"

She raises an eyebrow. "Well, that's open to interpretation. They're in love, sure. But I don't think Shakespeare meant it to be symbolic of the ultimate archetype of true love. In fact, it's more an allegory of the foolhardy nature of youth. The main characters are so consumed by this first experience of love, that they end up dying in their haste to be together in that moment, instead of facing all their obstacles to allow for long-term happiness. They couldn't see beyond those bursts of infatuation. That's why it's sad—not because they died."

This girl is killing me. "I have never thought about it like that."

She smiles shyly. "Well, it's just my opinion. Nothing more."

"What's your take on _Macbeth_?" I ask, and she laughs.

We spend the next hour discussing Shakespeare, and I have the best time. Talking about schoolwork. Not that I don't enjoy school, but as we end our time together, I'm convinced I would have a good time with her anywhere or doing anything. I can taste the words, the ones asking her to spend more time with me. Time she isn't getting paid for. But even as they rise up, I swallow them back. I wonder how many guys in my position feel the same way. They show up, needing help with their studies, and they end up half in love and completely addicted to the way she presses the first knuckle of her index finger bent to her lower lip while she's listening in earnest to someone speak. When our time ends, I thank her.

She accepts my gratitude, and then she pauses. She glances quickly at her backpack, then back up at me. I wonder if she's thinking about our non-school related conversation. "I'm here, if you need me. More help, I mean, from me. With Shakespeare. I know how hard it can be, to catch up mid-semester. You're smart, to put in the extra time."

Our interactions shift after that. By the end of the week, not only does she look up from her reading to say hi to me at lunch, but she's partaking in actual conversations instead of losing herself in schoolwork while we all eat. It makes no sense, given the timing of our upcoming exams. She needs the study time like we all do. She is around campus more, as well, or at least I spot her on more frequent occasions. When she sees me notice her, she smiles. As Friday dawns, I wonder if she'll join us at The Grange, but I'm still too nervous to bring it up.

First I have a full day of classes, track practice, and a meeting with my mentor, Craig. Our meetings are filled with conversations about my interests and goals and never venture into his personal history. He still hasn't told me what branch of the military he's with or even his last name, but I learn at today's meeting that he's going to be rejoining his old unit for a brief stint starting in January. He only tells me to prepare me that I'll have a temporary appointed mentor in his place for the duration.

"Where will you be?"

He shakes his head, combing over paperwork between us. My questions do not even register with him unless I'm asking about my own life, my own options. His life is off limits. He's drinking coffee from a local chain, even though it's past dinner. He glances up at me. "Have you given more thought to colleges?"

I roll my eyes. "Why do you never answer any personal questions?"

"We're not here to discuss my future. My life is sorted. Yours was shit, remember? You need help. That's why I'm here."

"Are you qualified to sort out my life?" I ask, not because I don't believe he is, but to defer my answer. I've given my post-graduate life quite a bit of thought actually. But I'm not sure I'm comfortable with the answers I have at the moment. Compared to the cushy life once ahead of me, things I now give consideration to scare the shit out of me.

"I have the highest level of security clearance granted by our government. I think I can deal with one kid who got caught breaking into a safe."

"You never did stupid stuff in high school?" I ask, deflecting again.

He snorts before he raises his coffee cup up to his lips. "Never said that."

"Did you ever get into trouble?"

He sighs. "Do you really care?"

I shrug. "I mean, I asked, so yeah."

He puts his cup down and stares at me head on. His gaze is level and uncomfortably intense, as it tends to be. "I hacked into my school district's mainframe to alter the qualifications of teachers in their biographies on a dare. That year's yearbook was a fascinating source of fictional satire. I got a long suspension for that one. Once they finally traced it back to me, which only happened because someone ratted me out."

My mouth upturns on one side. "Why?"

He lifts one shoulder, as if to say, 'why not?' "I was a show-off. And a little drunk."

"So, what, you're good with computers?"

"Among other things. So, now you know something about me. Have you looked at colleges?"

I groan. "Isn't it still early?"

"The rest of your junior year is going to fly by. It's already half over, I'll be gone through at least March. They'll appoint someone to check in with you in my absence, but frankly, with you going home for Christmas, I'm worried about you backsliding."

"Backsliding? Is that code for getting into trouble?"

He shrugs again, just with one shoulder. "You're doing great here. Clearly, whatever your problem was, it's there."

"Computers and psychology, huh?"

He sips from the to-go cup again. "Am I wrong?"

"No," I mutter, not thrilled to discuss Hartford. I do my best not to think about Hartford or Christmas or anything surrounding the school break. I still need to find a date to the Mayor's Ball. Part of me wants to avoid it completely, no matter the consequences that will follow disobeying such a direct order.

"We can discuss colleges or Hartford. Your choice."

"What about a third option?"

He waits, stone-faced and calm. I sigh again. "My dad's running for the Senate. Apparently. I'm to be on best behavior, smile for the cameras, and bring a girl from a good family as my date to any and all functions I'm forced to attend on his behalf."

"Yeah, I see no way you'd get in trouble there," he scoffs.

"I'm supposed to show how my time here has been rehabilitative," I say. "Or whatever."

"You are doing well here. Just talk about your volunteer work and keep your answers short. Take some girl you like from back home and make the best of it. It's only a couple of weeks."

I shake my head. I don't know if I expect him to understand, but it's clear he doesn't. "I don't want to ask anyone from Hartford to go with me. There are no girls in Hartford that I could stand being around for more than a few minutes without the option of making out to shut them up. All they care about is their looks or what kind of cars picked them up or how fancy the restaurant they're being taken to is."

He clears his throat. "Are you seeing someone here?"

I look down at the table and thumb through information on college selection. "No."

"Is there someone you want to date here?"

I furrow my brow and frown. "That doesn't do me a hell of a lot of good either way. I can't bring her, I mean, anyone from here up there just for a stupid party."

"Who is she?"

He's zeroed in. I attempt a not-so-subtle shift in conversation. "I'm thinking about deferring college for a year or two."

"Who is she?"

I give. "Just a fellow cadet. But it doesn't matter. She doesn't date."

He isn't put off. "How do you know?"

"It's a known quantity. She doesn't date." I think of Jess and Jack and all the conversations with them about Bailey and the mysterious troubles in her past.

"Maybe she'd be willing to make an exception to that rule."

"Seems unlikely."

"Well, you'll never know unless you ask, will you?"

We never do discuss college after that. I run from the conference room to my own barracks, shed my workout clothes and get dressed before sprinting out to the car where Jack and Rob are waiting for me. I'm not winded, despite my rush. I'm getting stronger, faster. My thoughts aren't quite as distracted lately, either.

"We were about to leave your ass," Rob tells me.

"Mentor meeting ran late," I say, sliding into the back.

"Thought you were going to stay in your room and pine for Bailey," Rob teases me.

"Which would have been truly stupid," Jack says. "Because she's coming tonight."

Rob hits him on the arm, and once the music is turned up in the car, we do not talk about Bailey or anything else. But the anticipation is already building in me.

One hour. I wait a whole hour, sipping a single beer as slowly as possible and watching the door. The door opens a few dozen times in that hour, but the one person I'm looking for never appears. I'm officially drinking alone at the bar while my friends have fun.

"Do you want to dance?"

I look over at Jess, who is looking at me with pity in her eyes. "I thought Charlie would dismember me if we danced."

"He knows you better now. Plus, it's obvious you are waiting for Bailey, and I thought a distraction might be welcome."

"A pity dance?" I ask with disdain.

She shrugs and holds out a hand. More sympathy. As if I don't feel idiotic enough.

I put my beer down and join her without protest. We stand opposite and join together like cousins at a family wedding. There is at least a foot of space between us and our movements are perfunctory at best. "She might not come. It happens that she tries to leave, but she can't always manage it."

"Are her parents just that strict?"

Jess nods. "They like to know where she is. Her dad especially."

"Why aren't you lecturing me about her tonight?" Actually, her lectures have been non-existent for a few days now.

"I don't know. I mean, I've noticed that you two are talking more. And despite all the opportunities you've had to ask her out this week, you haven't. And Charlie said I was being too hard on you."

I smile. "You only really listen to Charlie, don't you?"

She glares at me, halfheartedly. "He said I had to quit meddling. That if you two really wanted to go out, I couldn't put a stop to it, no matter my good intentions."

"Did he say something really sweet about how no one could have kept the two of you apart?" I tease.

Now her glare is full-fledged. "Shut it, Dugrey. I'm trying to be nice here."

I grow sober, or do my best. "Sorry. But you don't have to worry about it. First of all, she isn't going to show tonight most likely. And it's almost finals and then we go on break until January."

"So what?"

"So, the timing. It kind of sucks."

"You're going to Connecticut for a couple of weeks, you're not shipping off to war."

I stare off at the jukebox, all lit up and set with a long line-up of people's requests. We keep dancing, such as it is. "I know. But if something does start between us now, then it just makes everything more complicated."

"What's so complicated?" Jess presses me.

"I… I'm supposed to go to the Mayor's Ball, with my parents. And I'm supposed to bring a date."

"A date?" she asks, to which I nod. "Why haven't you mentioned that part before?"

"It hasn't come up. And I don't really want to go at all, let alone drag someone along with me. I don't have anyone up there that I want to bring with me anyway."

"I thought you said before, that there was a girl, back home," Jess remembers. She never forgets anything. Nor will she let me get away with a lie, or even a half truth.

"That's over. Really, it never even began. She kind of hates me, anyway."

"Tristan," she says my name, but she ends with a shake of her head. "And here I thought you were slick with the ladies."

I raise both my eyebrows. I can't help but smile at the compliment, even though I'm not sure she means it as one. "You thought that?"

She sighs. "You're hopeless. What happened to not being able to count the girls you've been with? Are you really just that bad at math? The way you picked up that girl the first time here, I assumed it was an ingrained habit."

I grind my teeth. This very conversation is giving me a headache, on top of wondering where Bailey is at. Jess is a good friend, but I don't like talking about my feelings or my failings, and this falls into both categories. "I have dated a lot of girls. Briefly. I'm great with girls, when things have no potential to get serious. But with girls I really like, girls I could see putting effort in with, I have a hard time," I struggle for the right words and stop trying.

"You've never had a serious relationship?" she balks. "Not even a little serious? Where you felt safe to make plans more than two weeks out?"

"It's not that I haven't wanted to," I counter, but then I start to think back. Is that true? I certainly never prolong most of the pain involved in my messy, hormone-driven hook-ups. Is Rory really different? Or is my focus on her because I know she will never return my interest? Would we really last longer than any of my other so-called relationships, even if she had given in? It isn't that long-term of an affliction, as I do not think of her at all lately. At best she is a sign that I can't happy with those other girls, a sign I long for something different. I see that now.

"I am going to tell you this one more time," Jess says, "You can't date Bailey once and then move on. If you do, things won't be the same with the group. People will take sides."

"What if you and Charlie break up?" I counter quickly, then soften it once I see her expression. Madder than a wet hen takes on new meaning suddenly. The fact she can hit harder than me is not lost. "Not that you will. But hypothetically, what would happen?"

Her eyes remain narrow, but she plays along. "Hypothetically? It would change things, too. I mean, it just does. When two people who hang out with a bigger group of friends get close, even for a short time, and then things go bad, it affects the whole group. Didn't you experience that at your old school?"

"Not really. I mean, people I hung with were constantly hooking up and breaking up and dating someone else we knew the next week."

She gapes at me, stricken. "That's messed up."

I don't disagree. "It's just how it was."

"No wonder you're so bad at this. Look, if you really think it's best to wait until spring semester to pursue something with Bailey, I think that's just what you should do. Take your time. She isn't going anywhere, and you need to show her that you aren't either, if you're serious about this."

I only really half hear Jess, as the door to the club opens again midway through her last comment. This time, it's her. Bailey is in the building.

She's wearing the boots.

Timing be damned.

"I guess we're done dancing?" Jess asks. I stop on the dance floor, other couples still moving to the music all around us.

I try to shake it off. "Sorry. God. Sorry. It's just."

She pushes me toward the bar. "Buy her a drink. Be on your best behavior."

"Yes, Mom," I say sweetly and move quickly to avoid her retaliation. I don't have to look back to know she's already back with Charlie and still watching my every move. I'm sure Charlie and Rob are watching us, as well. Jack would be at the bar, staring openly at our tentative interaction if he were here. Bailey, to her credit, does not look around. Her focus is true behind the bar, waiting for the bartender's attention. I don't know if she's afraid of what she'll see or if she's really thirsty.

But by the time I reach her side at the bar, she's ordering a Diet Coke. "I'll get that and I'll have a beer, too," I say to the bartender.

She looks at me then. She doesn't thank me right away, but she smiles. God, that never gets old, that thrill of such a simple expression from her. Some girls like to act like it's my job to buy them things—food, drinks, movie tickets, jewelry, while others will pick a throw-down fight about how my offering to pay their way is an insult to the women's liberation movement. Bailey is a mix of appreciative and humble. She knows why I'm offering to pay for her drink, and she is happy to allow me the pleasure. I'd spend my last cent on this girl. When we get our drinks, she lifts her slightly up toward me. "Thanks."

"You never mentioned you were coming tonight."

We are talking more now. I am taking a liberty, assuming we're at a level that she will let me in on her after-school plans. Her evening plans. To her credit, she tilts her head and looks at her fizzing drink before answering.

"I just decided, at the end of the day."

"What changed your mind?"

Her eyes sparkle at me, as if I am issuing a challenge. "It's been a while. Since I've been out."

Her answer feels heavy, laden with double meaning. It's been a while. I should tell her that this is all new to me. Not just being in the South, in a bar with music I'm still barely starting to recognize. But being here, with a girl that makes me nervous. A girl I want to like me, even though I'm not sure who I am completely. A girl I want to ask to dance with me. A girl I will not kiss tonight, or possibly even after our first proper date—the kind that involves me asking her out ahead of time and picking her up at her door and taking her for the whole evening. Not that I've ever met any girl's parents before a date, or have any way to pick her up at her house given my state of being without a car or really, any source of income to pay for a date. My cash reserves are dwindling. When I get back to campus after the break, I will focus on getting a job. My mentor has been on me to take on the added responsibility, claiming I have an ongoing need to learn to take care of my own needs. To learn to depend on no one but myself for the direction of my life. All his suggestions involve me getting stronger on my own and taking risks. Including with Bailey.

"I'm glad you're here," I say. I want her to know this. I have no idea where the line between letting her know I like her and coming on too strong is. It is often said I have the subtlety of a bulldozer, so I wince at this. To her credit, she smiles and downplays it.

"You have a pressing question about Shakespeare? A sudden epiphany about _King Lear_?"

I shake my head. "I think I'm well prepared for my test. Thanks to you."

She shakes her head slightly. "You seemed pretty prepared already. I mean, I'm not sure I helped you all that much."

"Well, you did," I say, because It's true. I do feel more prepared for that final after our session, even if that wasn't my original motivation for going to see her that day. The conversation feels awkward, and it's shifting away from me. If I am to ask her to dance, I need to do it and fast. "Do you dance?"

Stupid. I cringe from the inside out, but she merely raises both eyebrows at me in consideration and twists her straw in her drink. "Um, a little. I guess."

I close my eyes, trying to hit some kind of reset button on my brain. I'm not sure how far I need to go back. "Would you like to? With me, I mean."

Now her smile widens. It blinds me to everything but her. "I would."

I hold her the same way I held onto Jess, though instead of feeling appropriate, the distance and propriety feels overtly cautious. She doesn't make a move to slide in closer, though, so I hold myself back while maintaining two points of contact. There is still so much between us, all of it unknown, and as always I am hoping to erase it bit by bit. Too much too fast would overwhelm us both.

"About the last time you were here," I begin. Instantly I notice her cheeks fill in pink and her feet stumble slightly off step from mine. She rights herself as I brace for her fall.

"A couple weeks ago?"

I nod. "You left so quickly."

"I usually can't stay very long. I have a curfew at home."

"So do I, but only on school nights."

"My parents are strict," she says simply, not bemoaning her fate, but rather as if she's telling me the sky is blue and the grass is green.

"Stricter than a military academy?" I ask.

Her smile fades a little. "It's not as bad as it sounds. Didn't you have to be home at a certain hour on the weekends before you moved here?"

I shake my head and check our feet for a second. There is space for a whole person between us. "My parents would've had to pay attention to my coming and going to enforce a curfew. I guess I was stuck at home after my dad took away my keys, when I narrowly missed going to jail. But that was more my own reluctance to socialize after everything happened."

She nods, as if she understands the feeling. "I understand if you don't want to talk about it, but I can't imagine you burgling a safe."

"Well, I did. I did plenty of other stupid stuff, most of which could have gotten me suspended or arrested, had we gotten caught doing it, like we did with the safe. In fact, I had a few suspensions under my belt after multiple stints in detention failed to correct my behavior."

She bites at her bottom lip, worrying it for a few seconds, before she speaks again. "Why were you doing all that? I know I barely know you, but it doesn't seem like you."

I supply many answers, some more truthful than others, to this question since that fateful night. This time, I feel a spark of honesty that burns my throat as I answer her. "Nothing seemed to matter anymore. Nothing I had left—I didn't have anyone who cared if I got arrested, or if my Bio grade tanked. Most of what I felt was that I didn't want to be where I was, more often than not."

This is all too much to unload on any one person at one time, unless they are getting a hundred dollars an hour to listen to such confessions. Bailey doesn't flinch. She just keeps dancing. Holding my hand. "Your parents must have cared that you nearly got arrested. Or you wouldn't be here."

"I'm glad I'm here," I say with as much emotion as I possess. More than I thought possible.

She smiles, a soft and quickly fading expression. She turns pensive on a dime. "When you say you didn't have anyone left—did you lose someone?"

She's hit me where I'm most vulnerable. My soft underbelly that no one ever looks for. "Yeah. Last summer, my grandfather passed away."

Empathy radiates from her in waves. I hold fast to her, and she holds me up, stepping in a little closer as she looks up at me. "I'm sorry. You two were close?"

I nod, swallowing hard to avoid any further emotions from flowing freely. I want to kiss this girl, not cry openly in front of her. "I missed some school, the year before, to be with him when he was sick. He had some health issues. He called them episodes, heart episodes. They were like warnings. He'd have an episode, end up in the hospital, they'd alter his medication, but it was really only buying him time. And not that much time, in the end."

I swear a feel a squeeze from her hand to mine. "It was good of you, to be there with him."

"I was at his house more than my own most of the time anyway."

"I'm sure it was hard on your parents too. Maybe that's why they reacted so strongly to your delinquent activities," she says, as if the latter aren't such a shameful part of my past.

I shake my head. "They sold his house and got the inheritance money. Just enough to fund my dad's campaign for senator, which I now have to go home and pretend to be a party to."

"I think I'll take my early curfews," she says, and we both smile.

"About that night," I begin again since she brought the conversation back around. "That girl, the one I was dancing with," I say, even though we both know dancing is the least of it. "That's not, I mean, I used to…."

"It's okay," she says too quickly.

It's not okay, and I mean for her to know that.

"I don't want you to think that I hook up with every girl I see. I dated, a lot, back home, but I've changed. Being down here has given me perspective and I feel different in a lot of ways. I hope, for the better. I don't feel like the guy that didn't care about anything. I just, I wanted you to know that."

"You don't owe me any explanations," she says, but she still exudes relief. Her eyelashes are dark and thick and she flutters them ever so slightly as she looks up at me. "But I understand, what it's like."

"Wanting to change?"

She nods. "And losing someone. Feeling like you have nothing that matters. Pinehurst did the same thing for me, it gave me a lot of outlets to change the things I didn't like about myself. All the regulations they impose gave me a kind of purpose I wouldn't have had otherwise. I needed that so badly. Sounds like you did too."

I pull her a little closer as the music shifts. A slow song. A piano tinkles lazily and a woman croons about how she falls to pieces. "Can you stay for one more dance?"

"Just one more," she agrees as she holds my gaze. She tucks in closer, cradled against my chest, and we stop talking.


	5. Tenderness for the Past, Courage for

Story: Pinehurst

Chapter 5: Tenderness for the Past, Courage for the Present, Hope for the Future. (Agnes Pharo)

Summary: Set right after Run Away Little Boy. Tristan heads to North Carolina, to military school. A look at his life as he makes the jump from troubled bad boy with a trust fund to military cadet in the midst of his reform. Not a Trory. OC, with the exception of the Dugreys and the occasional Gilmore reference. Tristan-centric.

Rating: T. For language for sure. Possible adult situations later on

There's an air of excitement rising above the anxiety and stress all around campus. People are pulling out of survival mode, gearing up to head home and spend holidays with loved ones. While I'm glad most of my finals are behind me—finals week is a rigorous week that certainly puts all I've learned here to the test—but I'm not ready to leave.

I have my plane ticket, already secure in the front pocket of my backpack. Its arrival, sans letter or care package or anything resembling a token of home, marks a countdown to my own personal purgatory. I will be away from my newfound friends, separate from my structured routine, and making mandatory appearances with my family. I decide that I need to arm myself for the trip home. I take Craig's advice, doing all I can to feel self-sufficient. I buy a disposable cell phone and activate a cheap plan with no contract, so I have an outreach option if the worst happens in Hartford. I plan to find a job when I get back, and I have a meeting with a faculty advisor before my last final, to ask if he'll write me a letter of recommendation. Craig is the first person to write a letter for me. It feels good to have people believe in me.

I finish my last final with time to spare, recheck my answers, and hand it in. The tightness in my stomach intensifies. In less than twenty-four hours, my flight will land in Hartford. I take a few deep breaths, out on the quad, taking in the air that feels fresher to my lungs than the Hartford equivalent. Likely it's because I spend more time outside down here, but I want to take as much of this place with me as I can. The air in my lungs, the strength in my body—and there's one more way I want to reinforce myself before I go.

My final reprieve is at The Grange, tonight. Last week's outing is still fresh in my mind. After we stop talking, the conversation seems to continue between me and Bailey as we move together. She puts her head against my chest and I wrap both hands around her waist. I breathe her in and she warms against me. It's perfect, for those three or four minutes, until we stop swaying and she tells me softly that she needs to go. Not that she wants to go. I keep the difference in my mind, and it sustains me. Nearly all week, it keeps me sane. I need to hold her one more time, and Jess makes us all swear that we'll risk being exhausted during our travel time and first day of winter break to celebrate together.

In the meantime, I decide to get in another workout. Running has become more than a good habit. It clears my head, an often much-needed mental break. I doubt the snow and ice that waits for me in New England will make it easy to go for a run, but as with everything else I'll miss, I remind myself it's only two weeks. I just wish two weeks didn't seem like such a chasm to cross before I can come back to my life here.

I am not the only one that decides to stave off a post-finals crash with some exercise. Jack and Rob are warming up on the track, and I join them. We run without much talk, past rehashing finals and Rob's excitement for his family's trip to Arizona. Jack is pretty quiet. The reality of not going home for the first time at Christmas can't be easy to deal with. Going home is a reality that I'm not ready for either, despite it happening the next morning. All I want to focus on is tonight.

Jack and Rob don't ask about me and Bailey. I catch Jess looking at us throughout the last week—Bailey and I are wrapped up in our own little conversation bubble when the whole group is together, more often than not these days. We talk without awkward hesitation now, and our interactions are never planned with any formal agreement, but they are implied once we are together.

Like tonight. She's joining us, or Jess will never let her hear the end of it. We all have to be together, Jess keeps reminding us all. It's our last chance until next year. It's a nice gesture at any rate, as Jess would probably be just as happy to be alone with Charlie. Even Jack agrees to accompany us to The Grange, as it's a group thing, and he'll be hanging out with his boyfriend over the break.

My head is filled with all sorts of fantasies, all born of Bailey on that now-familiar dance floor. Simple touches fuel my excitement, given that the only time we touch is while we dance. Her hand in mine. My hand on her waist. Her cheek against my chest. It all invokes heat and desire and wanting. We do not hold hands, kiss, or so much as lean into one another while hanging out. We maintain a normal, if difficult, distance at school. The heat and hypersensitivity I experience for those two dances generate fantasies of the kind of near-ecstasy that will surely explode when our lips finally meet. I am far from inexperienced with the art of seduction, yet the kind of arousal that assails me from the curve of her neck and the drag of her fingers along my shoulder is fresh and overwhelming. I don't want to dismiss a moment, speeding ahead to more carnal encounters, even in my head. I want to relish every new way she touches me. Every single time I get to touch her. I start taking cold showers.

Jack elbows me after about thirty minutes of our run. We stop to drink water, trying mostly to replace what we lose in sweat. We all have a lot of steam to blow off, finals being a taxing time on top of all the added responsibilities that most people take on during the holidays at their volunteer jobs and getting ready for family celebrations. It feels like we're stealing time to catch a mental break.

"Heads up, Dugrey," Rob says, and I do as he suggests. I see Bailey come around and swing herself up on the metal bars of the railing. She sits like kid on the monkey bars, legs swinging free and her easy perch well-practiced.

"Hey. You here to run?" I ask with a knowing smile. She doesn't run unless necessary. I know this from one of our conversations this past week. She can meet all the obstacle course times, as required, but it's not her Zen. She does yoga at the rec center. She says nothing centers her more than the meditation the instructor leads them through while they hold poses and control their breathing. I say it's not a real workout until you break a sweat, but she shakes her head at me, like she knows something I don't. She does this a lot. I don't mind amusing her, as long as she smiles at me like only she does.

"Hell hasn't frozen over yet," she says with a wink and her southern drawl. Each hold the ability to melt me, combined they're damn near lethal.

"Sure it has. I just checked the weather forecast last night. Of course, Hartford ices over every winter, so," I joke, even though she can see through my stab at humor. Elective surgery is more enticing than getting on that plane. I would subject myself to pretty much anything if it means avoiding these next two weeks.

Jack and Rob decide to press on, and we wave them off. I lift the hem of my shirt to wipe sweat off my face, and I notice Bailey's legs stop swinging. In fact, she's gripping the bars on either side of her lips like she's hanging on for her life, I note as I lift my chin. My body is cooling off now that I'm stationary, but heat is building low in my stomach. I swallow, realizing she's staring at my bare stomach. I catch her eyes as she raises her gaze, and she blushes furiously. We do not look away.

"You taking off?" I ask finally. She has a reason to be here—Bailey always has a reason.

She doesn't appear to be in a rush, though. She lets one leg drop and sway back and forth again, catching at the lowest bar on the upswing. "Actually, I'm not going home yet."

This is enough to secure my full attention. I don't need to run anymore, as my heart rate speeds back up. I take another swig of water. "Oh, yeah?"

She nods, and I realize she's nervous. Her leg swings faster and she keeps a hard grip on the top bar. "I, uh, wanted to go to The Grange with ya'll tonight, so I told my parents that I had a late final. Jack promised to give me a ride and drop me at home afterward, and I'm going to change in Jess' room, but she and Charlie went Christmas shopping together this afternoon, so I'm kind of just hanging out until dinner."

I try to ignore the pang of jealousy that hits me at her asking Jack to get her to The Grange and see her home. It takes me a few seconds to remind myself that not only does Jack hold no attraction to Bailey, but Jack is my ride as well. She is coming as close to having me pick her up and drop her off as is possible, given my lack of my own car. And she's here now, looking for some way to pass the time. With me. Millions of desirable ways to pass time with this girl shoot through my brain. It's dizzying, like a fantasy come to life. Maybe I need to hold fast to that bar. I lean into it, almost up against her.

"Would you like to get some coffee? Java Jolt's only a few blocks away, if you don't mind walking a bit."

"Coffee sounds good," she says, jumping down off the railing. She lands lightly on her feet, like a cat. She's only moved closer to me, though, and now we stand just a few inches apart, smiling at each other.

I clear my throat lightly. "I should probably run by my room and change real quick."

Her eyes scan my shirt again. "Okay. You want me to meet you over there?"

I tilt my head toward the dorms. "I'd rather walk with you. If you don't mind making a stop first."

The dorms are co-ed by floor instead of building and run on the honor code, as most of the things on campus are. Members of the opposite sex are allowed during day time hours with an escort. No one bats an eye as we navigate my narrow hall together. My heartbeat is in my ears, as I lead her by just a stride. I unlock my room and glance around, grateful that I keep it as neat as is required. I don't have the kind of clutter that exists in my old bedroom back home. They aren't even possessions I miss, even though they were constantly in various states of use before. I remember that everything from before is waiting for me to deal with when I get back. Tomorrow morning. I swallow and turn toward Bailey once we enter my room.

"So, uh. I'm just gonna," I trail off and point to my wardrobe and pull a pair of jeans out. "Have a seat, I'll be back."

She nods, and I see relief wash over her features. I leave her in my room alone and pop out to the bathroom, stripping out of my damp workout clothes and easing into my jeans. I lean over the sink and stare at my reflection. The decision to change in the bathroom doesn't even register as conscious, it feels like a given standard, offering modesty to myself and respect to Bailey. I strip down to nothing in front of girls I barely know, more times in my past than I can count, with only my pleasure in mind. But without even weighing it in my mind, I choose this girl's comfort over my own domain. As soon as I splash cold water on my face, I head back to my room. She's seated on my bed, at the far end of the foot. Her head jerks up fast when the door opens, and I notice her fixed concentration on my face.

"Forgot to grab a shirt," I say, as if it had been an accident. A happy accident, perhaps, more of an oversight, but I take my time tossing my dirty clothes into the hamper and retrieving a fresh tee shirt. I want her to be comfortable, and I have no plans to rush her into any physical act, but I can't deny it's an ego boost watching her eyes roam over my chest with interest and appreciation. The slight blush on her cheeks, the way she takes a minute to find her voice; it's all good. It feels like a dream. I duck my head at last and yank the shirt over my head and neck, letting it fall down to my waist. It's been a long time since anyone's looked at me with such restrained desire.

"Can I stash my bag here? Just until dinner. Jess and I are going to get ready together," she adds, as if I might say no. I can't imagine a scenario where I deny her.

"Of course. You ready to go?"

She drags her lower lip into her teeth. She's still distracted. She's still sitting on my bed, her bag forgotten at her feet. "Hmm?"

"Coffee?" I remind her, though right now staying in is the biggest temptation in the entire world. Sitting next to her, on my bed. Putting my hand over hers. Feeling her fingers lace through mine. Feeling her breath on my cheek. Leaning in for that first, almost reticent, kiss.

God, I should have taken a cold shower just now. The single spray on my face is not enough.

"Do you want coffee?" I ask again.

"Right, coffee," she agrees, standing up quickly and nearly tripping over her own shoes. I reach out for her and steady her by her forearms. I hold her even after I'm sure she has her balance. She glances up at me, as though curious to the chances that I orchestrated her clumsiness in an attempt to achieve physical contact. I certainly haven't risked it before, save for asking her to dance. I plan on getting her permission before any kind of physical milestone. There is still a huge, overwhelming concern that she will reject that kind of advance, and I'm also unused to the reaction she has on me. Even just having her nestled into my chest, fully dressed and in a room of people, provides a reaction in me that is more powerful and life-altering than any kiss or sexual interlude in my past. Having her smile at me and laugh at something I say sets off a chemical reaction in my brain that's downright addictive. I crave the sight of her, the sound of her, and I have no doubt that her touch will be the same.

"Sorry," she says, her voice soft. I could kiss her, right here, right now. She's so close. I breathe her in. Her shampoo, gardenias, her skin, sunshine and just her. Her eyes are still and wide and trained on mine. There's something in them, something beneath the way her breath catches in the limbo of the moment. Something that makes me pull back and let go of her.

"You okay?" I ask, seemingly about the near-trip. But more than that, I want to know if she is okay. What happened to make her not okay, in the past.

She smiles, erasing her perplexed brow. It melts fast, but I catch it. Disappointment. Which makes me giddy with joy. She wants me to kiss her, at least in the space of that moment. It's the best present I'll get this Christmas, short of an actual kiss. I wonder if The Grange has invested in mistletoe. But I don't even want that—I don't want to kiss her via a ruse. I want it to be just her and me and all that's building between us. "Yeah. I'm good now."

We walk slowly, leaving campus and crossing out into town. She laughs at a story I tell her about my professor and a cadet getting into a debate about the factual accuracy of a question on our final exam that had the whole class offering a salute in the middle of a very comprehensive test. We wait at a cross street for a walk signal to change, and she pulls hair from across her face and squints up at me. The sun peeks out from behind some clouds that are rolling in. The wind picks up, signaling a winter rainstorm that should arrive later tonight. I don't care what the weather does, as we'll be safe and warm and dry and, hopefully, dancing together.

"You're going home tomorrow," she says, successfully changing the subject from lighter matters to heavier ones. I don't mind, but I'm hesitant to focus on the topic.

"Yeah," I confirm, scuffing my sneaker on the cement. I wish the light would change.

"Are you ready for that?"

I let out a long breath. "I guess. I don't have much choice. Craig says I always have a choice. In this case, it's my attitude I can control."

She furrows her brow again. "Well, I'm sure there's some bright side. You'll see friends, right?"

I eye her with a cagey hesitation. "Not really. I mean, I don't really have friends up there, not like I have you guys here."

"Are you afraid they all see you as the person who broke into a safe?" she asks quietly.

"I don't know. Maybe that's part of it, I'm sure that story made the rounds. I'm so far away, I'm completely out of the loop."

She nods then and the light changes. We walk again, and I can barely hear her over the wind. "I wish I'd had that, when I left school."

"Distance?"

She nods again. "I never left town. I still see my old classmates in town, at church, the grocery store. Everywhere except Pinehurst."

"Did you get into a lot of trouble?" I ask. I feel like I'm groping in the dark, not wanting to outright ask her what the scandal in her past is. If she's about to tell me, I'll listen without judgment. There's nothing she could do that would make me look at her differently. She's the sweetest creature I know on this earth.

"I made a lot of mistakes." Her voice is barely a whisper and she stops outside the coffee shop. The whole exterior is glass, and we see patrons sipping coffee and working on laptops. I don't know if she feels safer talking about this in public. I want to ferry her back to my room, keep her safe. Let her know she can tell me anything. "The kind of mistakes that people love to gossip about. I couldn't go anywhere, not for a long time, without hearing whispers. The worst part was seeing how it affected my parents. My momma skipped church for a whole month, because she couldn't stand hearing them all talking about me."

My parents make no bones about telling me how badly my actions reflect on them. This is all they concern themselves with, where I am concerned. "They must have come down pretty hard on you. Is that when your curfew started?"

She shakes her head. "I've always had a curfew, though I didn't always obey it. My parents never had to tell me how much I'd let them down. In fact, they've always protected me, in the best way they've known how. The curfew isn't a punishment, they just want me home safe and sound, and I owe them that. If I'm not there, they worry about me—and I've caused them enough worry for a lifetime or two. I obey my curfew mostly because I owe them a huge debt. I haven't broken it since I came to Pinehurst, and I've only lied to them once since then, too."

"About what?" I ask, my tongue growing thick. I already know the answer and guilt washes over me. Jess is the instigator of this evening, but I do wonder if I'm the reason Bailey agreed so readily to Jess' pleas.

Bailey levels her gaze on mine, and I have confirmation. "Tonight. I lied about the final being later, so I could go out."

"To be with your friends," I lead.

I curse in my head, careful not to even mutter it under my breath. We stand in silence as we order, wait, and are served our drinks. I let her pick a table, and we sit with a view of the street. I take a sip, even though the coffee is still too hot. Remnants of my lack of impulse control. "Do you feel guilty? For lying, I mean. About tonight and all."

She thinks about this for a beat or two. She doesn't lift her cup to her mouth, allowing it time to sit so she won't be burned. She's careful in so many ways. "A little maybe. I mean, I know it's not like before. I'm not being reckless or staying out all hours. I'll be home by curfew."

"None of us want you to get in trouble. I wouldn't, not on my account."

"Well, a little dancing never hurt anyone, right?" she says, finally taking a small sip of her drink. Testing it out. Just like she's doing with me.

I drink a little too much coffee, and by the time we part ways to get ready for the evening—her in Jess' room and me in mine—I am nearly vibrating with excitement and energy. I have this grand expectation for the next few hours, a pressure that neither of us need. She has a certain window of time tonight, I feel like a boom will be lowered tomorrow morning when I go home, and it's made for a heady mix. I do not want to waste a second, and I want her in my arms again. It's not a given, but it feels like a necessity.

She gets shotgun in Rob's car—a gesture I should expect, to let the lady sit up front. Instead of sharing the cramped space in the backseat with our legs pressing together and our hands brushing now and then, I'm folded in next to Jack, who is just as tall and twenty pounds of muscle heavier than I am. It feels more like a clown car with this configuration. I sit diagonally behind her, and I can't help but fixate on her profile on the drive. She turns now and then, including us in the conversation from the front seat. She slips off her jacket thanks to the cranked up heater. It's raining and the temperature continues to drop outside. Inside, her capped sleeves show off her arms, one of which rests along the center console.

Jack leans in toward me just as we turn off the main road toward our destination. "Don't drink tonight."

I frown at the sudden order. "Why?"

He lowers his voice, so it can't be heard up front over the radio and the heater. "I told Bailey I'd cut out early to drop her back at home, and come back for you guys later. But if you don't drink, and I do, I thought—it might give you guys some more time together."

"Is Rob okay with that? I know he lets you borrow it," I ask, trying not to get my hopes too high too fast.

Jack nods almost dismissively. "Yeah. You have a license, right?"

I blink as the idea registers. Me driving Bailey home. To her actual house. Us alone in the car. "Of course."

"And you can drive a stick?"

"No problem. Thanks, man."

Jack gives me a final nod, an affirmation. We pull into the lot and the overhead light pops on as Rob opens his door. I climb out with Jack on my heels ready to mad dash for the door, but I cross around to open Bailey's car door. She takes the time to pull her jacket back on and smiles up at my gesture. I don't mind getting rained on, and the guys have already made for cover.

"You ready to run?" I ask.

She takes my offered hand and nods. I slam the door shut behind her, and we race across the parking lot as the rain pelts down harder. We stop and catch our breath under the awning, and we're laughing and puffing warm breath into the chilly air. Our shoulders are damp and her hair is wet. My hair isn't long enough to catch water, and I rub my head off.

"Wish I could dry off like that," she jokes.

I reach out and run my hand through her hair, lifting it off her shoulder so it hangs down her back. "I like your hair. It suits you."

Her chest continues to rise and fall with noticeable force, but now she's standing otherwise stock still. I don't mean to freak her out. I'm ready to apologize for taking a liberty when she blinks a few seconds later and takes my hand again. "We should get inside. C'mon."

I keep hold of her as she leads me in—I will follow her back out into the rain, as long as she keeps hold of my hand.

"To the end of hell week!" Jess says, and everyone raises their glasses in a toast. We're all standing around a small pub table, the likes of which line the walls of The Grange. They're all near chest height with no chairs. The place is at full capacity now, right before the holidays. The bartenders are wearing Santa caps and country versions of Christmas classics are in full rotation. Elvis is crooning about his Blue Christmas as we share our toast. True to my word, I stick to soda. It hardly feels like a concession, as I'm buzzing on Bailey's attention. She's tucked in toward my side, her shoulder leaning into my chest as we pack close round the small table together. I lose track of the number of times she touches my arm while we talk, but I never fail to enjoy the tingle up my spine her touch elicits. My body is tuned into hers, and I never want the night to end.

"To safe travels for all ya'll," Bailey says, and we raise our glasses again.

Jack drinks down a little more of his beer on that toast, but he remains stoic. I bump his shoulder with mine. "Chances are, I won't last two whole weeks with my folks. I'll be back to keep you company," I assure him.

"No bullshit, Dugrey, come on. You're not going to tell us that you don't miss being pampered, driving your fancy ass car and being waited on hand and foot, are you?" Charlie asks. He doesn't sound bitter, but truly curious.

"Honestly? Not enough to make me want to go back voluntarily or for any length of time."

I don't mention that I probably won't get my fancy ass car back. And I never enjoy being waited on. It's a weird sense of freedom, washing my own laundry and being fully responsible for even the smallest details of life. At Chilton, competition breeds success, at least it is meant to. Here duty is above all else. Duty to ourselves, our superiors, our peers, our country, God. I'm not out to best all the other cadets. I'm only out to best myself.

Bailey tugs on my sleeve. I lean down, hoping she wants to dance. My heart is torn, between joy at wanting to get closer to her and knowing that we don't have that long before we'll have to go. She only has an hour before curfew, and we still have to get her home. I can come back and drink my sorrows away, trying to forget that I miss Bailey and have to go home the next morning. But for now, I focus on her, here at my side.

Her eyes light up with interest. "You might come back early?"

I nod. "If I can. I mean, I only have obligations until Christmas, and I've thought about cutting my losses as fast as I can. Really my folks only want me there for my dad's announcement, at the Mayor's Ball next weekend."

Our conversation is not as private as I assume, and Jess chimes in. "Hey, did you get a date for that yet?"

I shoot daggers across the small table at Jess, who is clearly imbibing with great merriment and holiday joy. She has Santa Shots, which smell like a toxic mix of peppermint schnapps and grenadine, candy canes in liquid form, when we first come in. Her guard is clearly down, and I feel Bailey stiffen next to me.

"You have a date?" she asks, her drawl softening her stony words. My heart wrenches and wrings itself out.

"I have a seat to fill. It's not a date. I emailed someone I had a few classes with back at Chilton to see if she'd be able to show up. She's not someone I ever dated—or would ever date," I add for good measure. "Her name's Madeline."

Bailey nods and I implore Jess for help with a beseeching glare. Jess, however, is one Santa shot past helpful behavior. "I thought you'd dated all the girls in your school. Except the one that hated you. But you even kissed her, didn't you?"

Jesus, I swear in my head. "Thanks, Jess, for that."

"I think I need a refill, pardon me," Bailey says, and she slips away into the crowd.

I lose no time assigning blame. "Jesus, Jess. What is with you?"

"Hey, Dugrey, calm down," Charlie says. He knows Jess is tipsy and out of line, but he's still going to protect her. I can't blame him, but I'd rather he occupy her otherwise.

"I just think that she should be aware of certain things," Jess says. "You're letting her fall all over you, she should know you have a date with someone else next weekend."

"It's a family obligation. Madeline is simply the least annoying person at my school that doesn't hate my guts. It's a short list, pretty much her and her uber-horny friend, who has mentally undressed me so many times I blush when she looks my direction."

"What's her name?" Rob asks with a grin.

I roll my eyes. "Seriously. I didn't tell Bailey about the date because it's not a real date. It's just a few hours that I have to get through, just like every other night I spend with my parents," I say, turning from the table and going after Bailey. I don't see her for a good few minutes, until she emerges from the bathroom. I thank my lucky stars Jess fails to follow her in there. No good ever comes of two girls conspiring in a bathroom. Even her trying to help me will probably hurt the situation at this point. I approach Bailey slowly. Being forceful won't help, pleading my case would be fruitless.

"Dance?" I ask. I expect a cold shoulder, and I prepare for her rejection.

She makes me wait. She nods after a minute and this time I let myself be greedy. She is granting me a reprieve. The sand in the hourglass keeps racing down and out on our evening. I pull her in close, and my hand brushes back and forth over her back, my fingers grazing over her shoulder blades. Her curves are delicate and I want to memorize every part of the way we fit together.

"It's not a date," I say softly in her ear. "If I had my choice, she's not who I would ask out on a date. There's only one person I'd ask."

Her eyes close as I lean my head against hers. Our temples touching, I barely hear her. "Tristan, don't."

I pull back and wait for her to open her eyes. They're watery, on the verge of tears. "What's wrong? Don't cry, please."

She shrugs, helplessly, in my arms. "I can't."

"Can't what?"

"I've enjoyed spending more time together, getting to know you. But we barely know each other. There are things about me you don't know."

"There's nothing about you that could change how I feel," I assure her. It's a basic truth in my head at this point, not to mention my heart.

She shakes her head, growing visibly more upset. "Don't say that. You don't know. And even if that were true, I don't date."

"You don't or you aren't allowed to?"

"Does it matter?" she asks. Her eyes are liquid, agony and helplessness mirroring back at me. Then she looks down. Defeat.

I don't have an answer. It does matter, but I can't make her see that. Am I so wrong, thinking that she feels for me what I feel for her? This growing attraction, this need to see each other and talk and touch. God, I don't ever want to let go of her. Can she really not want to go on a date with me? Even if she isn't allowed, the desire should still be there, unless I'm totally deluding myself.

I put a finger under her chin and lift her face up. "I like you."

She looks so sad, yet impossibly happy at the same time. It hurts to see that kind of twisting pain on her face, knowing I'm prodding at old wounds. "I like you, too."

"So, then, it matters."

"But," she begins, but she doesn't finish her thought out loud. She doesn't want to fight the issue, or maybe she's hoping I'll back down. She puts her head on my shoulder, and I slow us down. We're swaying back and forth, holding each other upright.

"Can you think about it, while I'm gone? I get that you aren't ready now. And if you really just want to be friends, I won't pressure you for more."

She nods into my chest, and we fall quiet. She's giving me this time, or maybe she's allowing herself the time, I'm not sure. She holds tight to me, her fingers sinking into my shoulders. I keep my palms open and flush on her back, holding her against me. We can't make time stand still, but we are soaking up the closeness. At least, I am. I can't tell exactly what's going through her mind.

I notice the clock first. I swear under my breath, which she hears and pulls back.

"What's wrong?" she asks.

"It's uh, getting late."

Her face falls. I wait for her to let go of me first. "Oh. Right. I guess I should get going."

I reach into my pocket and palm the keys. I hold them up for her to see, and she stares at them for a second, catching on to the change of plan. "If you don't mind me taking you, Jack handed off the keys before he started drinking," I tell her. Like it or not, I'm her option right now. I'm glad she doesn't have a choice, I'm afraid she'd take an easy way out.

She simply nods. "I should go say goodbye to everyone else."

I wonder how she'll say goodbye to me. "I'll come with you."

After some hugging and holiday wishes, not to mention a sheepish expression from Jess, and a dash through the rain, we sit in the front seats of Rob's car. I turn the engine over and crank the heat, trying to dry us out via the air vents. She holds her hands out to feel the warmth and shivers. She pulls her jacket tighter around her.

I take a minute to locate the headlights and the turn signal, and switch on the windshield wipers. Finally, I tweak the mirrors and notice she's staring at me.

"I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable in there, talking about dating. Jess told me that you don't date and to leave you alone. If that's what you want, I understand." I never claim to like it, but that I assume that part goes without saying.

She scrunches into her seat and frowns. She looks out at the cascading waves of water hitting the windshield between swishes of the blades. "She told you that?"

I nod and explain. I don't want her to think the details of her personal life are game for discussion in her absence, especially as everyone is so overly careful about avoiding them. "She didn't tell me why, she just said you didn't date, and that I should leave you alone. She's just looking out for you. She thinks I'm a serial dater with no staying power. A guaranteed heartache."

"Are you?" she asks, and I feel obligated to answer. And I really, really, for the first time, hate my truth. More than just wanting to distance myself with my old behaviors, I want to rewrite history. For her.

"I was. I didn't have the longest attention span. Or maybe I just hadn't found the right person to hold it."

She lowers her chin to her chest. Her eyes close, and I tear my eyes from the road for microseconds to check on her. She's taking a moment, complete quiet and still. I wonder if she's practicing her breath.

"Are you okay?"

She opens her eyes and turns to look at me. "Do you think that people can change? If they really want to?"

"I like to think so," I say, assuming we're talking about me. "I'm trying, anyway."

"Me, too. And for the record, I like the person you are now."

I let one hand drop from the wheel and search blindly for her hand. I squeeze it when I find it. "You don't have to tell me, whatever it is that happened before you came to Pinehurst. Of all people, I get that there are things in our past that we want to disassociate ourselves with. That's why I'm trying to be self-sufficient and carving out a life down here. I don't want to be dependent on my parents, because I know that's a crutch for me to fall back into my old habits, my old life. It all feels like a bad dream now."

"What if you can't stop the nightmares, though?" she asks, her voice laced with trepidation.

"Talking about stuff helps. You have people you can talk to. You have all of us. You have me."

She turns to look out her window. The rain is coming down in sheets. Visibility is poor, made worse by the utter lack of light around us. She's navigated me to her town, which seems to be in the middle of nowhere. I see no landmarks or signs of civilization. "I've talked to people. Professionals. I had therapy for a year. But no matter what I do, I'll never forget what happened. No matter how much I change my life, it's always a part of who I am."

"Maybe that's not all bad," I say. "If it helps you become who you're meant to be."

"What do you mean?" Her knuckles are white around my fingers, though she calms a bit as she waits for my answer.

I glance at her for a quick second, not wanting to risk losing focus on the road with the dark and the bad weather. "It's just, for me anyway, after my grandfather died, if I hadn't been so mindless and bored and isolated, I wouldn't have lost interest in school and taken up with the guys that I got into all that trouble with. I wasn't hanging out with them because they understood what I was going through, but because I didn't have to talk around them. They didn't care about me, they cared about doing the stupid pranks. And I was too self-destructive to care about anything but distracting myself. But if I hadn't gotten caught and sent here, I'd have ended up stuck in a life I hated in a few years. I'd either have ended up in juvie or have followed the path lined out for me, never doing anything more than I had to, living up to my father's narcissistic expectations. No matter what I do from here on out, I know it'll be my decision. And I'll have accomplishments that I'm proud of. So, as stupid as I was at the time, I'm glad for it now. It got me here."

"Pull off up here," she says, giving a final navigation and nothing else. If my little monologue affects her at all, she plays it close. I, in turn, distract myself with a lack of destination.

I lean over the dash as I pull off safely, peering into more darkness. "There are no houses up here."

She nods. "Yeah, there's a bus stop. I can walk from here."

I shake my head. "No."

"Tristan, you can't drop me off at home. My parents will see the car."

"They'd rather you get soaked and catch a cold or worse than having a friend drop you off at the door?"

She leans back against her seat and closes her eyes. Her hair is curlier than before, a mess of tendrils around her face, starting to dry off finally. "It's not that simple."

"Explain it to me. Is that why you can't date me? Because they don't want you to date?"

"I don't know!" she blurts out, her voice raising in frustration.

This throws me, and I assume she's just trying to end the conversation. "You don't know if you're allowed to date?"

"I haven't… I've only dated one guy before. I never asked my folks if I was allowed, it happened and I got caught up in it. And it went so horribly, spectacularly bad—I decided that I should forget about dating, until I was older, out of their house. I certainly don't have the heart to look in my Daddy's eyes and ask him if a boy can come round again. They'd have to meet you, and I can't imagine they trust me yet."

"Bailey," I start, feeling my heart pound—in my chest, in my ears, everywhere, the sound filling the car. "Do you want to go out with me?"

Her eyes open and all I see in them now is sadness. "I do. But I can't. I'm sorry," she says, leaning forward lightning fast and kissing my cheek. It's soft and quick and incapacitating. I'm struck dumb. Then her door opens, flooding the car's interior with overhead light, and she's dashing out into the storm. "Oh and Merry Christmas!"

The door slams behind her and the interior lights turn off. And thus begins the longest two weeks of my life.


	6. Favorable Conditions Never Come

Story: Pinehurst

Chapter 6: Favorable Conditions Never Come (C.S. Lewis)

Summary: Set right after Run Away Little Boy. Tristan heads to North Carolina, to military school. A look at his life as he makes the jump from troubled bad boy with a trust fund to military cadet in the midst of his reform. Not a Trory. OC, with the exception of the Dugreys and the occasional Gilmore reference. Tristan-centric.

Rating: T. For language for sure. Possible adult situations later on

The only sounds echoing in the cavernous room are my mother's manicured nails clicking on the mahogany desk and the soothing crackling of the wood burning in the fireplace. I sit on the leather couch, awaiting the talk I am informed is mandatory. It's not like I have better plans in mind, nor do I have the desire to seek any out. I don't argue the point, at any rate, and enter the den willingly, after not bothering to unpack my suitcase after arriving two hours late. Air traffic today is a mess, including my own flight, due to winter storms up and down the east coast. Rainstorms south of Virginia, and ice and snow covering New England. I lay awake the whole night before, staring up at the ceiling from my bunk at Pinehurst, thinking about Bailey's lips quick against my cheek. Her confession that she likes me too, and how she's afraid of the idea of dating. All I want is to find out the whole story, exactly what she's been through, to understand why she's so afraid. And how I can convince her that I'm worth the risk. But I can't. I'm in Hartford, waiting for my mother to lay down some sort of mandate.

"How was your trip?"

Not long enough, I think. "Fine."

She drums her nails again. "Good," she says. "Listen, Tristan. A few things have changed since you've been gone. There's someone I want you to meet."

I picture another man or another woman, an interloper that has finally come between my parents. An imminent divorce, the kind of public scandal that negates my father's chances to run for office. Honestly, I'm relieved at the thought. Chances are I'll see less of both parents with them living separately. Claiming to not want to choose one over the other, I can stay on at school over breaks. Maybe even find temporary housing over the summer, stay closer to Bailey.

Instead a man with an ear piece and an inscrutable expression joins us and offers a hand to shake. I stand up, now confused.

"Meet James. He'll be your detail for the duration of your stay, any time you come home until the campaign. And after, if your father gets elected."

She says this with great confidence, as if she's the keeper of some sort of crystal ball, offering a glimpse of the future. But she has no sixth sense—she's just arrogant and entitled, just like my father. Just like they expect me to be. Proud of the Dugrey name. Expecting doors to open and favors to be dealt, thanks to social standing and decades of marrying amongst the right families. I picture introducing my parents to Bailey, who comes from a working class family, attends military school, and doesn't thrive on social competition.

"My detail?" I ask, picturing some kind of bodyguard. I glance at James. He's in a suit and has yet to smile or blink.

"Security, darling. There are millions of crazy people out there, who become obsessed with politicians. We all have someone assigned to us. Your father has a team. It's a price we pay, to serve our community."

I hold in a derisive snort to the point that it hurts my chest. The closest my mother comes to serving her community is buying a table for four thousand dollars at a hospital benefit to pay for new landing pads for the medevac helicopters. While I appreciate that giving to charitable causes is a good thing in general, my parents have never interacted with the masses. They give as long as they can dress in formal wear and rub elbows with the right people. If my father ever shows up at a public soup kitchen, it will be a heavily documented event, and he'll only stay as long as cameras are pointed at him for his photo op.

"Right," I say instead.

She stands. "Well, I'll let you two get to know one another. He'll be the one to drive you to the Ball, so you'll need to get him your date's address. He'll need to run a background check on her as well. We can't be too careful. You did get a date, didn't you dear?"

She blinks at me, almost innocently, but I see the hardness in her gaze. She is testing me, finding out if I'm going to give them trouble while I'm here. As if I'd risk my early release for good behavior.

"Yes, Mom."

She smiles, her teeth flashing though her eyes don't light up. "Good. I'll let you settle in."

There is no welcome, no expression—even trite—that it's good to see me or that the house has been empty since I left. The house feels like a hollow shell, and I feel small inside it. There is space we never use, possessions we do not need, and opulence masquerading as decoration.

"So, Tristan. I understand you're at Pinehurst Military Academy. Fine school."

I side-eye James. "It is."

There is at least six inches of snow on the ground, and it is still coming down in a constant, though silent, flurry. There's a fire going in the grate here in the den. It's not my father's personal study, it is mostly used for when my parents want to lecture me. It's where we spend hours as my father's voice bounces off every surface after my near-incarceration. After every call from Headmaster Charleston. After busting out the rear tail light of my Porsche on a mailbox after my big blow-up with Summer and Rory's tears during our kiss at Madeline's party. In my mind, it's more of a lecture space for my parents to unload on their audience of one. Their greatest joint disappointment. Me.

"So," he says after I remain silent for a couple of minutes. "Who's the lucky lady?"

Luck has nothing to do with Madeline Lynn being my date to the Mayor's Ball. When making this decision, I immediately rule out anyone I that has ever referred to me as their boyfriend. This list isn't terribly long, as long-term commitments are not my crowning achievements. The next omissions make up a longer and far more important list—girls I hooked up with without even the suggestion of dating. These are girls I find attractive, or at least for a short period of time, and temptation is not something I need right now. My stress level around my parents is maxed out—just being in their house the last couple of days has me climbing the walls. Our conversations are formal and stiff. I crave distractions, and I end up in my room, doing push-ups and checking out websites for potential colleges. Most of which are in a certain radius around North Carolina. I also end up doing research on the different branches of the Armed Forces. Mostly I daydream about Bailey and wonder what she's thinking. Wishing I could call her. See her. Touch her.

Back to Madeline, she is one of the few girls in my year at Chilton—at Chilton in general—that meets my limiting criteria. She and her best friend Louise Grant avoid my flirting, my moments of weakness, and my charisma in general as they are underlings to one Paris Gellar. Paris is the scariest female ever to walk the halls of Chilton, if not the Eastern seaboard. She's a highly competitive, angry as a default, control freak who, for whatever reason, maintains an unhealthy and unrequited crush on me. I assume she's over it, given the fact we spent exactly one evening together and agreed that there's zero chemistry between us, yet one of the first things Madeline blurts out after we pick her up is how much Paris misses seeing me at school.

Madeline has no filter on her mouth. If the thought arises, it exits in the form of words for all to hear. Louise has a lack of control as well, but her weakness is hot guys. She and I might light up like fireworks, in a different life. We have nothing in common, save for a healthy sexual appetite. Madeline fills me in on Louise's current victim, a senior at Chilton that I know tangentially who just got into Harvard early admission. Louise is his self-gratification for putting his studies before a social life the past three years.

Madeline is sweet enough, but usually appears surprised. By her companion, by her current surroundings, by everything. People often think she's dumb, but she really isn't. She's mostly just naïve and optimistic. Chilton tends to beat the optimism out of its students, so Madeline's a real diamond in the rough that way. But she sure does talk. And talk. It saves me the trouble, most of the evening.

"Let's see, who else. Summer is dating Chaz Richmond. He's the quarterback this year? They got together after homecoming, which was a HUGE deal because he was with Mitsy Wellington, the cheerleader, and they've been together since Louise's Fourth of July pool party. You were there, you remember. Anyway, he and Summer have bio together, and everyone knew they were flirting, but she was dating Rex Alexander, but on Homecoming night she broke up with Rex because he brought a corsage that clashed with her dress. She tried to walk off, but he grabbed her wrist and pulled her across the room while he begged her to reconsider, and Chaz punched him. Broke his nose, right there at the dance, and Mitsy was yelling at Summer about Chaz being her boyfriend, and Summer was crying and Chaz dumped Mitsy in front of Summer and everyone just before they were named Homecoming King and Queen. Chaz and Mitsy, I mean. Not that she'd got up on stage with him after that."

I nod, doing my best to follow her train of thought. Summer is one of my exes—she broke up with me because she wanted to date someone else. Her claim of me being too possessive is the official reason she tells people, but who likes seeing their girlfriend, even one they aren't too crazy about, kissing some other guy at a party? Summer loves drama, and it sounds like Chaz is fulfilling her needs. But Madeline isn't done.

"Oh, and the big mystery now is Rory Gilmore. She's still dating that hunky bag boy, but Paris was just out in that weird little town Rory lives in? Starry Night or something? Anyway, there was a big snowstorm and some strange corporate dinner got cancelled, so Rory's mom had this big party with turkey legs and grog and minstrels and Rory invited Paris. They're kind of friends now, since you left. I mean, as much as anyone can be friends with Paris. She's kind of prickly. In a totally good way. Anyway, Paris went, and they did these sleigh rides, and Dean brought his little sister, so Rory ended up hanging out with this new guy. Apparently he's a cross between James Dean and Tony Manero. He's from New York and he smokes and he reads all the time and never smiles, and he sounds like he's really into Rory. I'm guessing she and Dean will be a thing of the past soon."

This news should at least interest me, given how into Rory I let myself get, but honestly it sounds like more noise. We are seated at the table, waiting for dinner to arrive. My parents will join us eventually, but they are networking with all the other half-drunk politicians in the room. My father and the mayor are looking particularly chummy. I roll my eyes at the sight and focus back at Madeline.

"I'm sorry. I'm listening. Sounds like everyone is doing well."

Madeline blinks. "Um, yeah. I mean, everyone misses you, of course. How is military school? Is it scary?"

I frown. I wonder what kind of medieval torture she thinks occurs at my school. "No. Not scary. Just different."

She nods. "You look amazing. I can tell you've been working out."

I smile, accepting the compliment for what it's worth. "Thanks. You look nice, too."

She smooths a hand over the skirt of her dress. "I wore this to winter formal. So, do you like have to do push-ups while a drill instructor yells at you?"

I raise an eyebrow and sigh. "Only if I fuck up. Which, for the record, I haven't. Yet."

She shifts, uncomfortable. "I didn't mean to imply… I don't think you're a screw-up. I think you're a good guy."

I snort. "Sure you do. That was my reputation."

She softens, even though she is soft to begin with. "No, seriously. Everyone was worried about you, when you were hanging out with Duncan and Bowman. You know, they got busted breaking into a boat out on the marina, and they had pot on them. Their parents didn't bail them out again—they both got expelled and sent to juvie. They have court dates next month. Their lawyer is Louise's dad's lawyer, so she hears about all that stuff."

This startles me. I shouldn't be surprised, yet I know this is a parallel outcome to my own life. Pinehurst is my redemption. I won't go to jail, I won't sit trial, I won't hurt my chances at college and my future. I have so many options. All I have to do is survive tonight, maybe a few more like it. And Madeline isn't the worst person to suffer with—it feels good to know I won't jeopardize any future with Bailey based on my actions tonight.

"I appreciate you coming with me to this. I know it's boring and stuffy. I'm sure you had better options for the evening."

She shrugs and lifts a glass of water. "Oh, well. I was definitely intrigued, I mean, no one's heard from you since you left. Paris was so mad, that night we performed _Romeo and Juliet_ and you didn't show. Or, you did show and left, I guess. I wanted to see how you were doing."

"I'm good. I'm doing well in my classes and I've made some good friends."

"Better than Duncan and Bowman," she says with a smile.

"Better than Duncan and Bowman," I say with a wry smile. I forget how funny Madeline can be. She usually plays second fiddle to Louise and third fiddle to Paris. Paris tends to suck the oxygen out of a room, making it hard for other mortals to get a word in edgewise.

She hems and haws a bit. "Are you dating anyone?"

My head dips. James did his best to grill me about personal details, trying to get a handle on what my life is like in North Carolina. He goes on and on about how even seemingly innocent people in my life will look to take advantage of a politician's family. How important it is for me to properly vet any potential love interest. Should I create any children out of wedlock, it could be costly not only in terms of money, but also a loss of poll points for my father. I am surprised when he doesn't sing a show tune as to the importance of birth control. I wonder if my father got a stern talk from some campaign staffer about keeping his libido and roaming eye in check. At least in public.

"No. No dates."

She laughs, and then stops as she realizes I'm serious. "Oh. Wow. Is there at least someone you like? Or is it an all-male school? Oh, God. How awful for you. I can't imagine going to an all-girls' school. Louise said you would be like a sailor on leave if you were at an all guys' school."

I can't argue. That would suck. The idea of not having met Bailey… I shudder. "It's co-ed. And there is this one girl, but it's kind of complicated. We're friends and it feels like there might be more, but nothing's happened."

She nudges me. "What's her story? I mean, she must want to go out with you. What girl would say no to you? Unless," she thinks for a moment, and I know she's thinking about Rory. "Does she have a boyfriend?"

I shake my head. "No, nothing like that. We're friendly, but she had a bad experience, with her last boyfriend. I don't know the details, but she's really freaked. She's afraid of introducing me to her parents, and I think she's worried about whatever happened happening again."

Madeline purses her lips in thought. "You really like her, huh?"

I upturn my hands. "I… can't stop thinking about her. The best parts of my days are when I'm with her. I want to be with her all the time, I want to talk to her and make her laugh. We haven't… I mean, we're just friends, so we haven't done anything, but when she takes my hand or—she kissed me on the cheek, last night, when we said goodbye, and it makes me want to do whatever I can to make her trust me."

Madeline's matter-of-fact. "So do that."

I run a hand over my head. I'll need a trim when I get back. "Do what?"

"Show her she can trust you. Do whatever you can, don't let her be able to question it. Take that part out of the equation. You're Tristan Dugrey. You ooze charm. Every girl at Chilton wanted to date you."

"Not every girl."

"Every girl. Maybe not all of them admitted it to you or themselves, but any heterosexual girl in a fifty-mile radius of you is susceptible to your attention. I mean, we're just out as friends, and my popularity skyrocketed at school as a result. I didn't tell anyone—except Louise, but Paris overheard and had a snit fit. Her yelling made it common knowledge. I wasn't sure if you wanted anyone to know anything."

"It's okay. I'm pretty disconnected from Hartford these days."

She looks around in amazement. "You seem pretty connected."

"This is my parents. Not me."

She looks around again and tugs absently at one of her short, dark curls. "Is it weird? Being back?"

I nod. "Very. Surreal. And with this campaign—it feels like a caricature of my old life. It was bad enough before, but this is a circus. I have a handler, for God sakes."

She pushes at my upper arm. "Shut up."

"Our driver? James. He's my security detail and media filter, all in one."

"A bodyguard? Oh, I always wanted to have a bodyguard. And he's kinda hot. I have this fantasy, you know that Whitney Houston/Kevin Costner movie, where he's her bodyguard and they fall in love and she almost dies and he carries her and," she fans herself, getting caught up.

"Uh, sure, I guess?" I say. "So far, it's not anything like that. He asks questions and I try to give short answers."

"Well, you're just not James' type. Can I borrow him?"

And so we spend the rest of the evening having an almost okay time, with decent conversation, some laughter, except for when I fulfill my obligation to give a couple of interviews for the _Hartford Courant_ on the early days of my dad's campaign. James nods when I say that we're proud of my father and pulls at his lapel when I hesitate on the question about my dad always having political aspirations. I emerge unscathed, and by and large my parents must be pleased at my performance as they leave me alone. No more requests are made, nor are any lectures handed out. I hang out in my room, I call Jack to see how he's hanging in there, and I mark days off my calendar.

Christmas Eve comes and goes. My mother attends midnight mass and my father smokes cigars with his after-dinner brandy. I retire to my room immediately following dinner, hoping that tomorrow I can get what I want for Christmas—an early ticket back to school. Madeline's advice mulls in my brain, about how I should make Bailey feel at ease by instilling trust. And how best to go about doing just that.

Christmas morning is the same as it always is at the Dugrey home. No one wakes up early. There is a huge tree, trimmed by professionals, surrounded with presents. I get a lot of clothes, most of which will go unworn thanks to my limited wardrobe at school. If I'm not in uniform, I tend to be in track gear. I can hopefully salvage a few pieces for outings with my friends, and even more hopefully dates with Bailey. My parents didn't pick out the clothes, my mother has personal shoppers for such things. My father rises after all the other presents are opened, he presents me with a small box. His smile is smug, and my mother watches us with marked anticipation.

"Open it," he instructs as I eye the wrapped box with hesitation. It sits on my open palm, light in weight but heavy in meaning.

"What is it?"

"Open it and see," my mother adds eagerly. They share a look, which ramps up my distrust.

"Okay," I say, lifting the box lid. It's only made to look sealed with a ribbon. It is, like most things in this house, mainly for show.

Nestled inside on a bed of tissue paper—red and green—is a key. It is familiar, very similar to the keys to my Porsche. My father sold off my old car—the memory of watching the new owner show up, hand over money, and drive off fresh in my mind. It is sold to prove a point—I am not in control under his roof. My father controls the money, the house, and everything in it—people as well. He wants to control me, but I know now that I don't have to let him. Better yet, I have tools to deal with him without starting World War III.

"Car keys?" I ask.

He is still smirking. My mother watches me raptly, as if expecting me to burst into a dance of joy or start hugging them or some other drastic reaction. As if we are huggers. My parents appear to be in pain when they smile with real enthusiasm. The idea of hugging them prompts me to recoil in horror.

They say nothing, but they are clearly waiting for me to thank them. To be indebted to them. I put the lid back in place. "No thank you."

My father glares at me, which is oddly comforting. Plus, it means he understands what I am really saying. What I am really declining.

"Tristan, it's a car! You can't say no to a car."

I square my shoulders, which are broader and far thicker than in our last family portrait. They haven't mentioned a change in me, but that doesn't matter. I know I'm different. They never take much notice of me anyway. "I don't need it. I'll only be here a short time, and I don't need it at school. There isn't much in the way of student parking, and I get around just fine as is."

I watch as an argument flashes over my father's face. I expect a fight—it's our main source of interaction. If we aren't fighting, we aren't talking. My mom can talk to me at length and never hear me, our exchanges a rambling, disjointed exercise in futility. The one constant is that I never agree with either of them, and neither of them is ever yielding to my opinion.

Here's the thing—I could take the car. I could leave early, enjoy the drive, crank some music, and deal with the hassle of caring for it at school. I could have a reliable, personal source of transportation to whatever job I get, a way to get to Bailey's house in Pinebluff without bumming Rob's wheels. If I can figure out exactly where she lives. The bus stop where we parted ways at isn't much of a giveaway. But if I take this car, I owe my parents a debt. They have just one more thing to hold over me, something to take away if I disobey them.

"I appreciate the gift," I say carefully. "But it's not something I need right now."

"Tristan, you loved your car. This is a newer model," my mother offers, knowing how much my father loves newer models. Maybe she thinks it's a male trait, that we're helpless to resist something new and shiny. Cars, girls, no matter the object.

"If you don't want a car, then what do you want?" my father asks, wanting my bottom line. He works on rewards and punishments, one being the flip side of the same coin.

I fold my hands in my lap and clear my throat. "Actually, I was hoping to go back to school early."

"How early?" his mother asks. She doesn't sound disappointed. It should hurt, but it doesn't. None of us are dependent on the family unit being together. Sharing extended holidays. It's a time to endure, not relish. They never bother trying to instill the magic of the season in me.

"As soon as I can. I'm trying to get a job lined up for spring semester, and I'd like a chance to buy my books and get a start on pre-reading. I left the day after finals, so I didn't have a chance to do that before I left."

I don't mention filling that time with Bailey, or make any other mention of her, to anyone but Madeline, while I'm in Hartford. I don't want my parents digging into her life or allowing James do any digging into her past. I want to know what happened to her, but not like that. Not from a background check. I want it to come from her, a confidence she allows me. My parents want information on their terms, at any cost. I will keep Bailey from them as long as possible.

My parents share a look, devoid of emotion, silently conversing. My mother shrugs, my father nods. "You can leave tonight, if you like. But we'll need you back for the first round of debates for the Democratic nomination."

It's a wager. "When are the debates?"

"March. You won't miss any school, I'll have my team arrange your travel around your schedule."

"I may have work, and I have my volunteer hours, too, at the Red Cross."

He nods. "James will coordinate all the details when it gets closer."

All it takes is one simple verbal agreement, and I'm unpacking my bag in my room at Pinehurst by nightfall. I bring a few new clothes, a new laptop, and some books fresh from under the Christmas tree. James takes me to the airport, and I assume I will hear and see more of him than I will from my own parents until the election. If my father wins, James might have to legally adopt me. I am his charge while my feet are on Connecticut soil. I'm sure he has other duties while I am away, but I don't ask. I'm free again. I'm home.

And I have work to do.

I call Jack early on Saturday morning. He's surprised, both by the fact I'm back and by my request.

"I want to go to church."

We are drinking coffee at Java Jolt. Campus is devoid of human life, and the town is sparsely populated. It must be like a ghost town in the summer months. I feel even worse for Jack, being here without us all last week.

"Chapel?" he yawns. It's not that early, but it's still vacation. He's been sleeping in, taking advantage of the full break from, well, everything. He is still volunteering, but that only fills fifteen hours of each week.

I shake my head. "No. I want to go to Bailey's church, in Pinebluff. And I need you to come with me."

He doesn't spit out his coffee, but he has to work to keep his lips closed as he nearly chokes on my request. "I don't think they allow gays. Southern Baptists mean business, my friend."

I roll my eyes. "I'm not asking you to convert, or whatever," I say.

"You have some kind of come to Jesus moment at home? Is that why you're back so soon?"

"No. I just… before I left, I asked her out. She said she wants to, but she couldn't. She's afraid of what her parents will think, and I think she's scared about a lot of things. I want her to trust me. I think that if her parents trust me, that could go a long way in changing her mind. And I get the feeling that me showing up as her date won't earn me any points with them. They need to see me as a trustworthy person before we go out."

Jack taps on the table next to his drink. "It's not a terrible idea. But I don't see why I have to go."

I sip my coffee. "I'm a Godless Yankee. They'll eat me alive. I need a friend, a local who can help me navigate the scene. Please?"

I know he'll agree when I hear his defeated sigh. "I can't believe you turned down a fucking Porsche."

I smile over my coffee cup. "I have priorities."

He doesn't look convinced of my sanity. "Did you ever think you've gone too far? Overcorrected, I mean, from your previous life of an over-privileged bad boy?"

I offer a resolute head shake. "None of that matters. I'm not worthy of Bailey. Until she agrees to go out with me, I still have work to do."

"Any guy willing to do what you're proposing is worthy of the person they want. You must be really into her to put yourself through all that for the chance at a date."

I hesitate before asking my next question. It's something I have yet to ask, even though it is constantly on my mind. "You and Bailey talk, right?"

"Of course. You know that."

I nod. "I do. But do you… has she ever told you about what happened, you know, before she came to Pinehurst?"

Jack shifts uncomfortably. "I mean, a little. It's not something she likes talking about."

"Is it… something that will keep us from being together?"

I want Jack to offer me hope, even if it's false. To tell me that nothing will stand in our way. That it will take only a little convincing on my part to make Bailey fall in love with me. Instead, he shrugs. "I don't know, man. It had to be pretty brutal to deal with. Only she can work through all that. I mean, I know she's better. She's been to counseling and all that. When she first came here, she didn't talk much. She wouldn't sit with anyone. We sort of enveloped her, Jess and Charlie and Rob and me. We moved to the table she sat at, all alone, and just included her. Jess was in charge of her transition, same as you, but she needed a lot longer than a week. And really, she didn't really start to take an interest in anyone until you showed up."

I sit in awe, listening to his account. "Really?"

"Guys hit on her. I mean, even I'll admit, she's a gorgeous girl. Not my type," he says with a smirk. "But it nearly made her catatonic. Jess and Charlie would usually intervene, Jess steering her away while Charlie had words with the guy in question. Even Rob made her edgy. But with you, I mean, it's obvious she's interested in you."

"She kissed me, on the cheek, that last night. I asked her if she wanted to go out with me, and she said she did, but she couldn't. Then she kissed my cheek and jumped out of the car."

Jack blows out a long breath. "Then, I guess, we should go to church. But you owe me."

"You have my eternal gratitude. Name it, and it's done."

I downplay Jack's hesitation to join me at first. The next morning, I put on my dress uniform as I don't have a proper suit with me. Jack told me to wear my nicest clothes, and I'm glad of the forewarning. The women are all dressed up like it's a high holiday, Easter or Christmas, in their Sunday best. The men are all in suits. There are barely any seats left when we get there, and we cram in the back. The sermon is loud, with the congregants all shouting out with hearty enthusiasm, in agreement with the pastor, and it's very different than the stoic mornings we spend in chapel.

What strikes me most, however, is the choir. It's huge, filling up much of the front of the church behind the pulpit. The minister stops to let them sing periodically, after prayers, after announcements, after most portions of the service. The longest gap without singing is the sermon itself, but even after it is done, the choir sings two songs, one of which contains a solo portion. A microphone is set out front. I see Bailey in the crowd of the choir, but after the microphone is set up, she steps forward.

The whole room narrows to just her. I forget to breathe while she sings. I know she likes music. What I do not realize until just this minute is that she can sing.

I am hardly the only one mesmerized by the sound of her voice rising above that of the chorus behind her. She closes her eyes and loses herself in the words, as her voice navigates the octaves. Her speaking voice is lovely and lyrical as is. Her singing voice is something else. It's hypnotizing. It's not demanding, but it definitely commands attention. Too soon, her solo comes to an end. Her eyes open and she cuts back into the larger group. She's not lost, however, and I swear I can still hear her voice though it blends in with all the others around her.

I'm transfixed. I'm in love.

Jack's elbow digs hard and fast in my ribs. "Dugrey. Pay attention."

"I am."

"The service is almost over. Are you going to talk to her parents?"

Panic sets in swift and furious. My palms sweat and my mouth is devoid of moisture. "Now?"

"We have to go over there. Introduce ourselves," he leads slowly. "As Bailey's classmates."

"Right. What should we say, why we're here? I can't say… it's because of her."

"Even though it's painfully obvious," he teases me. "Jeez, man, you're in a bad way, aren't you?"

I nod once, stealing another glance at her. She's standing with her hands clasped, chatting with the person next to her, a middle-aged woman with tight brown curls.

"Just keep it simple. We're here because campus is shut down, and they didn't have chapel. I didn't want to go all the way home, so we came here since Bailey has said such good things about it."

I hear the underlying hurt in his voice. "How was it? Being here, for Christmas and all?"

He shrugs dispassionately. "You know. It was weird. Not all bad. I spent the day with his family. His mom got me a present, and it was surreal, being with someone else's family like that. Being accepted that way, as someone important enough in his life to share a holiday with the family. That part was great. Coming back to campus alone, that sucked. But I talked to Rob and you, and that helped. I'm not sure what I'd do without all you guys."

"You don't have to. And I told you, I'd be back early."

"I still can't believe you turned down a Porsche."

I smile. "It's worth it. Trust me."

We quiet down during the final prayer. After everyone echoes the "Amen," we are dismissed as a group. Bailey winds her way through the choir, off the stage, toward her family. Jack and I cut our way out of the pew, up and across the main aisle. I honestly can't be sure if she notices us before now; she keeps her emotions under check fairly well. The most expressive I see her is when we are alone, especially that night in the car. She stirs things up in me, so it only seems fair that the reverse is true.

"Jack. Tristan."

Her eyes are wide as she says our names, inserting us into this area of her life. Her mother encourages two younger children on that look to be early elementary school age to pull on jackets, and another slightly older child faces backward over the pew, talking to someone their age while her father ends a conversation with another parishioner.

Her parents eye us immediately, and the wary heat of their appraisal makes me break out in a sweat. I'm in my uniform, so I feel slightly more confident in that regard. Military association in the South seems to carry a weight that isn't as overt in the North. While military are appreciated, there's an underlying detached response due to that kind of service being a choice. Down here, people are grateful. They express gratitude and show their regard for service, especially because it's a choice. It's strange to feel the difference, having gone to the Mayor's Ball in the same outfit. Most people muttered at me that it's a fine choice of school, but everyone there assumes I'll attend Princeton in two years. No one, not even Craig, knows how drawn I've become to the idea of joining ranks after graduation.

Bailey does a double take at the sight of us. "I thought ya'll were…," she blinks and looks from Jack to me. Her gaze holds on me, just long enough for me to notice the panic in her eyes. They're near wild with fright. "With your families," she adds at last.

"Came back early. I need to get a jump on getting a job," I supply.

"These classmates of yours?" her father asks, his voice stiff and distrusting. His hand goes to her shoulder.

"Where are my manners? Jack Hadley, Tristan Dugrey, these are my parents," she says with a prim, if faint, smile. "Mr. and Mrs. Bailey. Momma, Daddy, Jack and Tristan are my classmates at Pinehurst."

The introductions sound convoluted, mixed up somehow. It takes me a minute to process her words, as I realize another personal fact she's never revealed to me.

"Nice to meet you, Sir, Ma'am," I say as Jack and I shake their hands. I do my best not to look at Bailey, but it physically hurts to hold back. My gaze is questioning, and the way she averts her eyes from me is telling.

"What are ya'll doing down here?" Mr. Bailey asks.

"Well, Sir, campus is closed down for the holidays, which means no chapel. Bailey speaks so highly of her home church, and it was far closer than driving all the way down to my hometown," Jack says easily. He, clearly, is not blindsided by the last couple of minutes. In the very least, his conflicted feelings lie completely hidden under his good manners.

"Don't get too many new folks round here. You boys will join us for Sunday dinner, now you hear me?" Mrs. Bailey instructs us by way of invitation, even as she's herding her smaller children toward the exit. It's not the kind of invitation one declines, not that I'd miss the opportunity. Not only do I want to see her house, I need to talk to her. My list of questions for her only ever seems to grow.

"We don't want to intrude," I say, being just as polite, surprised I can find my voice in the melee of my thoughts.

"Nonsense. You boys need good food, and we have plenty. Roy, help me get these kids into the car, will you?"

"I'll be right out. I'll just give them directions," Bailey promises her parents. Her father shoots us one last look, as if trying to decide which of us to hate more, but nods before leaving us alone. I guess he feels safe knowing he'll have us in his house to properly interrogate soon enough.

"You were supposed to be in Hartford," she says softly, yet very accusatory, right at me, as if Jack isn't right here. To his credit, he half turns away from us, letting us talk.

"I came home early. I told you I'd try to come back early." I tell her most everything about me, which I don't add, but my tone implies.

"To surprise me at my church?" she asks, her voice holding at a harsh whisper, still shaken.

"You're mad?"

"I'm… surprised. I can't believe you two just showed up here, without so much as asking first."

"You'd have said no."

Her cheeks blush, deep and fast. "Then why did you come?"

I want to touch her hand. I want to pull her to me in a hug, and feel her melt into my chest. When her eyes soften at me like that, it's impossible to remember how frustrated I am that I can't hold her. All I have left is honesty. "I missed you."

"Tristan," she says my name like it is breaking her heart. "And you," she turns on Jack.

"Bro code," he says, raising a hand in defense. Her response is a continued hard glare in his direction.

"Do you want us to leave?" I ask gently.

She looks back at me, worrying her bottom lip. She shakes her head helplessly. "No, you have to come now. Momma already invited you. But ya'll have to be on best behavior."

I cross my finger over my heart. "It's just one meal."

She doesn't liberate her lip at my attempt for assurance. "My brother and sisters will climb all over you, trying to wrestle, hollering to be heard over the others. My momma will overfeed you, and daddy," she says, closing her eyes and giving her head a slight shake again. She pulls her hair off to one side, over her shoulder and twists it before letting go. Her nervousness radiates out in waves. It's enough to make me feel seasick.

I reach out for her hand. I squeeze it lightly and then let it go before anyone can witness the brief show of affection. "I can take it. I just wanted to see you, that's all."

"What about me? Aren't you concerned about me?" Jack asks, feigning hurt.

Bailey shoves Jack toward the aisle. "Oh, come on. Let's go. Ya'll can just follow us. You have Rob's car?"

Jack nods and we follow her out of the church. Our next stop is lunch at Bailey's house. I downplay her nerves as a reaction to our surprise appearance, thinking it won't be as bad as she's expecting. I think I know what the afternoon holds for me, but in all truth I have no idea what I am getting myself into. None at all.

The least of which is exactly what constitutes a Sunday dinner.


	7. In Courtship a Man Pursues a Woman Until

Story: Pinehurst

Chapter 7: In Courtship a Man Pursues a Woman Until She Catches Him. (Proverb)

Summary: Set right after Run Away Little Boy. Tristan heads to North Carolina, to military school. A look at his life as he makes the jump from troubled bad boy with a trust fund to military cadet in the midst of his reform. Not a Trory. OC, with the exception of the Dugreys and the occasional Gilmore reference. Tristan-centric.

Rating: T. For language for sure. Possible adult situations later on

The Baileys have property. Their nearest neighbors are acres away. But instead of a stately home occupying much of the land, off at the end of a winding gravel drive sits a modest farm house. A few outbuildings scattered around—a detached garage, a large shed, what might be a pump house. There are woods beyond the backyard and to one side of the house, offering privacy on top of the backset placement from the road. We follow them in our car, but Mr. Bailey makes much faster time down the drive, not slowing for turns and kicking up clouds of dirt and dust. Jack takes more care, driving Rob's car, and the whole family makes it into the house before we park. I should be second-guessing my insistence to show up uninvited, but I'm too busy taking in this environment. Her environment. We amble up to the house, giving them time before we invade their home. A huge wraparound porch envelops the bottom floor of the house, and the top step creaks under my foot as we approach the front door.

Mrs. Bailey greets us, opening the door wide before we knock and welcoming us in warmly, and we follow her to the back of the house. She's already wearing her apron and the house smells of the food simmering and baking in the kitchen. We pass a big gun safe in the widest part of the hallway, a reminder that Mr. Bailey is nearby and not keen on seeing his daughter on a date. Bailey is shooing her brother away from something resting on the stove, but the kid snags a biscuit as she startles at the sight of us in her house, the place she eats breakfast. He runs away, happy to make a fast getaway due to her distraction. She stirs something on the stove, turning away as her mother plays hostess. A reminder that it isn't Bailey's idea that we're here.

We offer our assistance to Mrs. Bailey, and she gladly puts us to work. Her first request is to keep the kids out from under foot. Jack sportingly organizes a game of hide and seek in the backyard. Mrs. Bailey hands me a basket and instructs Bailey to gather the rest of what she needs from out back.

I'm not expecting a bounty in December, and I see no crops growing in any outlying areas around the house. I could ask, but she's quiet so I follow her in kind. As Bailey approaches the door to one of the outbuildings, I realize we're at a greenhouse. She shuts the door firmly behind me. Now our silence is contained and suddenly so very loud.

"So," I start, breaking this silence that I can't stand any longer. I feel a little cramped in here, as I don't have much headroom and the interior is packed to the gills with plant life. Between the limited space and the fact we're standing as far apart as possible, I've nowhere to go. I have no interest in the plants, let alone any idea what we've come after, so I look at her in a way I dare not in front of her parents. She's still in her church clothes, a dark brown dress with white floral pattern. She's added a sweater to it, a sign that the farmhouse is drafty compared to the heat and close quarters at the church. It's quite warm in the greenhouse, however. The air is rich with the smell of plant life and soil. The brown in her hazel eyes are brought out by her dress. Her eyes are full of questions, but she remains silent. She's waiting for me to say more. I clear my throat and jam my hands into the depths of my pockets. "What do we need?"

"This way," she says softly, turning to head down the makeshift aisle. She stops at a tomato vine and plucks a ripe red fruit effortlessly. She hands it out to me, and our fingers brush as it exchanges from her hand to mine. She draws her hand back and ducks her head to inspect the plant, as if searching for the next best produce. I marvel at the way her touch jumps from my fingers all the way up my arm. Ignoring the tension between us is making the tension unbearable.

"Do you want us to go?" I ask, unable to hold myself back.

She jerks back suddenly, without selecting another tomato. She straightens up and stares at me. "No. It's just… strange. Having you here. At my house. In the greenhouse. Right there," she explains, gesturing toward me, but not touching me. We're closer now, deeper into the greenhouse, out of necessity. The walkways are narrow and it's no use trying to put distance between us. Her eyes meet mine after she stops talking and the air grows hotter.

"We've been this close before. Closer even. We've danced together," I remind her, my voice cracking at the end. I don't mention the kiss on my cheek, but I'm thinking about it. She looks like she is, too, the way she shakes her head and shoulders slightly.

"No, I know. I guess I'm just a little nervous."

"We could talk," I offer.

"Right. Talk. What about?" she asks, obviously still skittish.

"We could start with something basic. Like, for instance, your first name," I say as innocently as I can, but it comes out more pointed than I intend. It feels like a slight, that she never mentions it before now. I know it isn't deceit or her hiding anything purposefully. Everyone at school calls her Bailey; she simply treats me like everyone else. That's probably what bothers me the most.

Her blush rises across her cheeks. She has high cheekbones, what my mother would describe as a delicate bone structure. She's so beautiful it hurts, standing there in front of me in all our awkward glory, keeping our careful distance. "Sophie. My name is Sophie."

"Sophie Bailey," I repeat back to her, trying out the sound on my tongue, my lips. I find I'm smiling, unable remain stoic. "It's pretty."

"Thank you," she says, ever polite, but the compliment flusters her still. She can't edge in more physical distance, so she inserts it into the conversation. Her gaze flickers. "So, how was your date?"

My smile, that comes so easily with her, fades. "It wasn't a date."

"Did you get all dressed up, pick up a girl at her house, and take her to a ball?"

I groan. "Technicalities be damned. She's a friend, if that. More of an acquaintance. She's a perfectly nice girl, but she's not who I'd want to ask out on a date. There's only one person I want to ask out on a date," I confide, leaning in, down, toward her. I keep maybe an inch between us, but every part of me, every cell in my body, wants to kiss her. Her cheek, her lips, her forehead. Her neck. Her shoulder. To circumvent everything and just feel her skin on mine. The heat of her mouth, the taste of her. I blink, trying to tear myself from the daydream.

Maybe it's the humidity of the greenhouse, but she's affected as well. She swallows down a soft noise, and her eyes lift to mine. "Tristan."

"For the record, I wore this."

She reaches out a hand and traces the sleeve of my dress uniform, her fingers lightly trailing from the elbow and letting go before she gets to my wrist. Tingles race up my arm to my shoulder, making me shiver. "You look handsome in your uniform."

"Sophie." I breathe out her name, still testing the sound of it. Associating it with her. I know I have forced my way into this part of her life, but it feels like I learn more about her in these couple of hours than in the last month.

"We should," she began, taking a half step back, "finish up here. Momma's waiting."

"If it bothers you, my being in here, just tell me and I'll go out and help Jack with the kids. You can tell me anything." I don't raise my voice, I keep it as controlled, as soft as I can. I don't want to spook her—she seems unnerved enough. I sure as hell am. I try to retain my control, but I'm about to jump out of my skin. "You can ask me for anything."

She pauses, mulling over my last statement. "Why did you come back so early? Did something happen at home?"

I shake my head. "Nothing happened. I fulfilled my obligations with my parents, and when they asked what I wanted as a reward for playing the dutiful son, I asked to come back."

"No other reason?" Her voice is soft, gentle, but knowing.

I rub the back of my head. "It's the first Christmas since my grandfather died. My parents acted like it was just another year, and they're so focused on my dad's campaign—I miss him so much, and they act like nothing was missing. Maybe it's stupid, but it's easier to miss him when I'm here."

"I'm sorry, Tristan. It must be hard, especially at the holidays."

I nod. "Yeah."

"So, you came back early. And you dragged Jack down here," she says with a faint laugh.

"I figured Jack needed some company. As for coming here—I told you, I missed you."

"You barely know me," she says, her words utter disbelief. "You didn't even know my first name until five minutes ago."

"But I do now," I say, taking a full step toward her and setting the basket down. Now there's just air between us, and not much of it. "And I know a lot about you. I know that you seem shy, but you're really just incredibly introspective. You have empathy for people who are hurting. You make Shakespeare not only relatable, but interesting. You're patient and kind. You're gentle. I know your smile, the dimple here," I reach out and lightly press my thumb to her cheek. "I know how it feels when you dance in my arms. I missed you, Sophie. So here I am."

"You're sweet," she says, a tear jumping the chasm of her eyelashes and streaming down her cheek, toward her would-be dimple. Onto my thumb. "But there's a lot more you don't know,"

I remember Madeline's question and go still. "Is there… someone else? Someone you're not over?"

"No," she says, her voice hollow and distant. "No one else. That's over."

Whatever's on her mind has invaded the air around us, like a third person in the small space—whoever she's thinking about. The guy from her past. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have asked."

She shakes her head, composing herself. "No, it's fine. I'm fine," she lies, pasting a smile on her face, though her eyes are troubled and no dimple forms. I don't need her to put on an act for me. I reach out for her hand. She yanks it back, as if the sweep of my fingers burns.

"We should really finish up in here," she manages, and this time the pain in her voice forces me to action. Our attraction morphs into her duress, yet again, and it rips something inside me. I crouch down to grab the basket, with confusion and frustration and tension brewing like a storm. Maybe fresh air will do us good. The nutrient-rich aroma in here must be feeding my natural instincts. Sophie bends down as well, to perform the same task, my mirror image. She lifts her chin as her hand rests on the curved handle. I lift my hand, seeing her knelt before me, and act on impulse.

"Sophie." My lips form the word against hers. My fingers ease up into her hair behind her ear, and I close my eyes as I press my lips to hers before she can say anything. She holds perfectly still, a bent-down statue, as I kiss her, gentle but true. A proper first kiss, my need too much to hold back a second longer. I need to kiss her more than I need to breathe, and I realize that neither of us are. My heart clenches, a result of her lack of response. She's not pushing me away, but rather fails to react entirely. I keep the pressure as soft as her lips, sweet with a relief that builds immediately into more need. I start to pull away, the heat of the moment fading under the scrutiny of self-doubt. Suddenly I am kept there by her hand, reaching for my tie. Her grip tightens and pulls me closer, and she snaps to action as if waking from a dream, returning the chaste fervor and kissing me back as I cradle her head in my hands. My hands don't wander, as I'm too caught in this kiss. My fingers weave into her waves and lose themselves there. I'm kissing Sophie, but the miracle is that she's kissing me back.

I tighten my grip on her loose curls as her tongue brushes along my lip. I open my mouth, a force of habit, and she then catches my bottom lip in her teeth with a gentle tug. My hands fall to her arms, ready to pull her closer in response, but she pulls back from the embrace. When she releases me I nearly lose my footing. I'm still crouched, leaning over the basket, and I drop my hands to the ground to steady myself. Her hair falls forward into her face. Her lips are tinged deep pink, as I'm sure mine are as well. I don't need a mirror, I'm sure I look much as she does—pupils dilated, cheeks flushed, and otherwise speechless. Even as sure I am that she's about to lower a boom, to tell me it was a mistake, or that she's just not ready for anything physical—I don't care. All I want is to kiss her again. If not, I have that kiss to remember. It's not the kind of kiss one forgets.

"Sophie." It comes out as a plea as she stands up, fast enough to make her dizzy. I'm definitely dizzy, but it's only because of the kiss. I've never felt so much from something so otherwise innocent. I never give much thought to kissing, really, with other girls. It's a warm-up, a precursor. With Sophie, it's everything. I stand up much slower, reaching out to stabilize myself on the edge of the table next to us.

"Not now. Please?" she asks softly. I nod when her eyes seek out mine, hers so troubled. She dusts off her skirt and plucks another tomato from the vine. She puts it in the basket and holds the basket close to her body. "You should go check on Jack. My brother and sisters will have him tied up behind the shed by now. I'll finish in here."

Her voice is wobbly, but her intention is clear. "Okay," I say quietly. I put a hand on her shoulder and squeeze it, holding on for her sake as well as my own. She leans her cheek against the side of my hand and we remain there like that for a minute. "Can I ask you something?"

She lifts her head and her chin quivers. "Yeah?"

"Why don't you go by Sophie at school?"

"The instructors use surnames as a default," she says simply, and I see her relief. There are a much harder questions I could ask, about things she's still too scared to tell me. "And it felt safe, I guess. A way to keep part of myself out of sight. When I got there, Sophie was a mess. Bailey was starting fresh and capable of becoming this cadet. At first I wasn't ready to offer any personal details about myself, even just that. By the time I felt comfortable enough to be myself, I was known as Bailey."

It makes enough sense to me. My saving grace is that the Dugrey name holds no sway down here. No one cares who my father is, my popularity isn't dependent on my family's wealth or the size of the parties I throw while my parents are out of town. Even if my father does win a Senate seat, most of my classmates will be none the wiser. I release her and reach for the door. "I see you, Sophie. And you don't look like a mess to me."

I don't see her slip back into the house. Jack and I play with the kids for a while, all games that involve us giving chase, until Sophie comes to stand on the back steps and claps her hands. "Time to wash up for dinner."

There are groans from the three kids, but they dutifully head to the house, brushing past their older sister. She pulls her sweater together and cocks her head in amusement as Jack falls onto his back in the grass. I laugh and kick his leg.

"Get up, man."

Jack clutches his stomach. "Need. Food. Now."

"Ya'll brought it on yourselves. Now get in here and wash up, or I'll get the hose," she calls out. There's a lilt to her voice. I put out a hand and Jack grabs hold, accepting the heave up onto his feet.

"Yes, Ma'am," Jack grumbles as he passes Sophie ahead of me.

Her eyes land on me as I reach the step below the main porch, where she watches my approach. She is only mildly successful at holding back a smile, and I can tell she's thinking of the kiss, as there's an undercurrent of guilt creasing lines in her forehead. I reach up for her hand, but catch myself at the last second and grab hold of the porch rail.

"Your tie is loose."

"Thanks," I say, fixing it deftly. I relish in the memory of it coming loose at her hand. "Better?"

She nods, listlessly. Her guilt flows seamlessly into anxiety and her amusement is long gone. She's worrying a spot on her bottom lip nearly raw. I stare at her mouth, remembering its power over me. I take another step up, on her level. Once again I'm taller than she. "It'll be fine."

"I've only brought one boy home before. I know this isn't the same. That was…. I mean, we're not…. You know, it's just," she stammers out her words.

"Look," I say, accepting a hard truth. Something I know even before begging Jack to join me here—today isn't going to change anything immediately. We're not going to go on a date next weekend or maybe even next month. The kiss, amazing as it is, can't overcome whatever is holding her back. In retrospect, it may push her away for a time. Not because she doesn't feel something for me, but because she does. I know she does. I feel it when she looks at me—and the kiss confirms it. I can also see how much that scares her. "All I want is the option, in the future, to be welcomed back. If that's what you want. I'd like to make a good impression on your parents. But they're not who I'm worried about impressing the most."

She furrows her brows together, staring at me with uncertainty and some kind of wonder. "Tristan."

"I'm sorry if my coming here makes you uncomfortable. I'll wait to be invited back. I won't keep springing up, forcing myself into your life. I can let you come to me, if that's how you want it. But, I guess, I just wanted you to know, that I'm willing to put in the time. Take this slow. Get to know each other."

"Oh."

"I should go wash up," I say after she remains there without saying anything else. I start to pass her, and just when I take care not to brush against her, I feel her hand at my elbow. I pause, just for a second, and look down at her. She holds my gaze before letting go.

By the time I wash my hands, the rest of the group has gathered around the dining table. There is more food amassed on the Baileys' farmhouse table than most people serve at Thanksgiving. The whole of the table top is packed with platters of fried chicken, ham, mashed potatoes, several type of vegetables, biscuits, gravy, and more. Jack doesn't seem surprised by the smorgasbord, and the kids are already reaching for food as we settle into our chairs. Sophie is at the opposite side of the table with her sisters, Jack and I next to her younger brother, all of us sandwiched between her mother at one end and her father at the head of the table. He studiously ignores us, and it feels purposeful—a reminder that our presence is not by his invitation.

Mrs. Bailey, however, does not seem bothered by the extra filled seats at the table. With practiced ease, she smacks a biscuit from her son's hand and smiles at the rest of us as if no transgression occurs. "Shall we say grace?"

"Sophie," Mr. Bailey assigns the task, and I bow my head just like everyone else does. My parents have never given thanks before a meal, but it's a tradition I recall from holidays at my grandparents' home. It seems an eternity, though it's just ten years since my grandmother died and two since my grandfather fell too ill to host Thanksgiving.

"For what we are about to receive, may the Lord make us truly thankful. And may we always be mindful of the needs of others, for Jesus sake, Amen."

We all repeat her solemn exclamation, lift our heads, and the food starts its rounds. Mr. Bailey begins with the meats, and the kids are by far the least shy about piling too much food on their plates. Mrs. Bailey oversees the whole scene, making sure everyone gets all they need and then some. Jack relaxes into his food, demolishing a biscuit covered in gravy and ham before I finish loading my plate.

"Mrs. Bailey, thank you so much for inviting us over. This is the best food I've had in some time."

"Oh, now. It's the least we can do, for friends of Sophie. Doesn't your mama cook?"

He nods. "Yes, Ma'am. But I'm not able to get home often."

"You both board at Pinehurst, then?" Mr. Bailey asks, breaking into the conversation with stilted, almost forced participation.

"Yes, Sir," I say.

"And where did you say you were from, Tristan?" He cuts his eyes at me, and they feel piercing. They're the same hazel color as Sophie's, but far more discerning. This may be his home, but he's abiding his wife's hospitality for now.

I put my napkin in my lap. "Hartford. Connecticut."

He stares at me, as if trying to decide whether or not that's an acceptable answer. Mrs. Bailey, clearly a gracious hostess in the Southern tradition, picks up the conversation. "How are you enjoying North Carolina? You must get homesick, being so far away."

I offer a polite smile, glad to be focusing on her pleasant questions instead. "Not much. I like it down here. The food's amazing, and the people have been very welcoming. I got lucky, falling in with good friends right away at school."

"And just how did you meet our Sophie?" Mrs. Bailey asks, giving her husband a quick look, sharp and silencing. He gets her message, in a time-honed tradition. I notice a lot of couples who are together a long time can communicate without words. Even my parents, who at times barely seem to tolerate one another, have this trick down.

"Jack and I both volunteer at St. Mary's. And Jess oversaw Tristan's transfer week," Sophie speaks up. It's clear to me that the only school chum she mentions at home is Jessica, the only female in our group. It surprises me she's speaking up on our behalf now.

By far, Sophie's got the least on her plate. She picks at a piece of chicken, and I don't see anything pass her lips. Not that I'm looking directly at her. I'm half scared to death her father will take note of any amour in the way I look at her and hoist me from the table and toss me out the front door. And then go back for one of the guns from the safe in case I don't run fast enough from his property.

"So you transferred recently?" Mrs. Bailey asks pleasantly.

"Yes, Ma'am. Just after Thanksgiving."

"Do you volunteer at the hospital as well?"

Beside me, Jack is eating continuously, as if he's never had a square meal in his life. Or recently hollowed out his leg. The food smells amazing, but my stomach is a mess of knots. It's not only that I want to say the right things, but I also want them to accept me via my answers. "I got in with the Red Cross. I'm signed up to take EMT courses when the semester starts up again."

"How old are you? Can't be an EMT unless you're of age," Mr. Bailey contributes. His eyes narrow a bit, now wary of an older guy sniffing around his daughter.

"I'll be seventeen in March," I answer. "I can't get certified until I turn eighteen, but they encourage the volunteers to take the courses so we can be better utilized in case of disaster relief."

Mr. Bailey grunts his assent and stabs another piece of ham. I make a mental note not to reach for food near him. I don't want to be on the receiving end of those prongs.

"You all have such busy schedules. Do you have a job as well?" Mrs. Bailey asks, a pleasant, empathetic smile still on her face, and it doesn't seem to be false or forced. It feels like she cares, and about a virtual stranger, solely because I know her daughter. My mother never pretends to care this much, even about her own son.

"I've put out some applications recently. It's the main reason I came back to campus early, to beat the rush. I don't have a car, so I'd like something fairly close to campus." Jack kicks me under the table, another reminder of his displeasure of my turning down a Porsche.

"It's good for a man to learn to take care of himself," Mr. Bailey says, glancing at his daughter. "Earn his own way." Sophie casts her gaze down at her napkin-covered lap.

"Yes, Sir. I agree," I say, hoping I don't sound like a total kiss-ass. Jack doesn't kick my shin again, and I accept the natural lull, finally biting into the chicken. It puts the delicious aroma to shame, the crunchy outer layer as satisfying as the juicy meat within. No wonder Sophie goes home every evening for dinner. My parents employ trained chefs to work in their kitchen and provide our meals. And while they are highly trained and offer the latest trends in food with fancy plating and perfect wine pairings, Mrs. Bailey's meal is the best thing I've ever eaten. The food my mother commissions is always tiny, weird, and stylized. This, however, is comfort food. While it looks appealing and smells intoxicating, it's all about the taste. And even more, it's about sharing it with others. The whole experience, sitting and passing and sharing the food, it makes it feel like we're part of this family. Even with the third degree from Mr. Bailey as he pauses to reload his plate. His energy is hostile, but at least he cares enough to ask.

"Ya'll are juniors, like Sophie, then you'll be looking at colleges. What are your future plans?" he asks, opening it up for either Jack or myself. Jack, of course, is busy chewing. I think he's added on an additional stomach just for this meal alone. Not that I blame him. I've grabbed seconds, but I'm sure he's on thirds.

It's up to me to start. "I don't have plans for after graduation yet."

"Daddy, they're here for a meal, not the third degree," Sophie speaks up after my less-than-desirable answer, but her father ignores her. If he's going to trust me with his daughter, I can't let her do the heavy lifting.

Mr. Bailey isn't impressed so far, that's clear. "Don't you plan to go to college?"

"Well, I was supposed to go to Princeton," I admit. Sophie looks up at me, her interest spiking. She pushes some grits around with her fork. In fact, all eyes are on me now, with the exception of the younger kids, who couldn't care less.

"Princeton, now there's a fine school. Your grades must be excellent," Mrs. Bailey says graciously. I can see the resemblance between Sophie and her mother, especially when they smile. They have the same dimple and fair skin. They seem to have a calming nature, which is a stark contrast to Mr. Bailey. I can't ever imagine relaxing around him, but that is in large part due to how badly I want to kiss his daughter again.

"I earn good grades. And my father is an alumni, as well as my grandfather. It's sort of expected for me to attend as well."

"What's wrong with Princeton?" Mr. Bailey asks, no doubt wondering what my problem is.

"Nothing at all, Sir. It's a great school. I'm just not sure it's for me. I've been looking at other options."

"It's good to have alternates. It can get fairly competitive, or so we hear," Mrs. Bailey says. "And that's just at state schools. Places like Princeton are very exclusive."

"Yes, Ma'am. That's true." College admission time is a cut-throat stress factory, or at least, that's how Chilton handles it. Every year, kids crack under the pressure from teachers, advisors, parents and themselves. I'm sure my class will be no different. Craig pushes the issue with me at our meetings, but no one from the administration mentions it at all as of yet. With all the focus on rising up to meet challenges on our own, I'm sure it's yet another thing that will be largely left in my control when the time comes.

"What other schools are you looking at, then?" Mr. Bailey asks.

I put my fork down, realizing it will be a while until I can hand off the baton to Jack for his defense. "I'm considering applying to Duke. Wake Forest. UNC," I add. I like the idea of staying down here, for a while longer, if I can. Maybe it's just the relief of being out of my parents reach, but my short time here has made an impression. I'm in no hurry to relocate back up north. I'm also in no hurry to give Mr. Bailey an exhaustive list of just why I enjoy being here so much. "But I've also thought of deferring college for a few years."

This clearly isn't the right thing to say. Even Jack pauses, even just to swallow. Mr. Bailey's gaze sharpens on me, like a knife on a stone. "You think your folks will approve of you putting your education on hold?"

I can't imagine they will, actually, but it's a worse fate becoming someone of whom they approve. "Under the circumstances, I hope they'll come around eventually."

"You got some fool notion of finding yourself? Travelling around, working odd jobs until you decide you run out of money or are ready for college?" Mr. Bailey asks, and Sophie ducks her head again, staring at her plate with her hands in her lap. She's since given up pretending to eat.

"No, Sir. I'm considering joining the military after I graduate from Pinehurst."

At last Mr. Bailey seems mollified by my response, and it's Jack's turn. He talks about his hopes of attending medical school eventually and chances for scholarships. I remind myself that we are on equal footing in this house, both friends of their daughter, either likely to be hoping for a chance at dating Sophie as far as they know. They know nothing of us before this morning—it's painfully obvious she has not mentioned me to either of her parents before. We finish up dinner, both Jack and I taking turns answering questions of varying personal nature. The entire spread disappears, Sophie and her mother clearing and packing away what leftovers remain. I smell coffee brewing, and suddenly dessert appears, as if by magic. Not one offering, either, but two different kinds of cobbler, still-warm fruit pie, and a caramel cake.

Finally, on overfilled stomachs, we thank our hosts again as Mrs. Bailey sends Sophie out with leftovers for us to take back to the dorms. Mr. Bailey bids us a clipped goodbye and heads out to his workshop. The kids run off to play while the sun is still out, and Mrs. Bailey pats our shoulders and tells us we're welcome back any time. The screen door slaps shut and Sophie follows behind us at a pace with paper bags for each of us. As if we need to eat for the next couple of days after a meal like that.

Jack turns after opening the car door. None of us say much, and the things not said between Sophie and I are deafening. "I need to check the oil. Can I see if your dad has an extra can around?"

"Check the garage," she says with a nod. She's staring at the trunk of the car, the driveway, the porch. Anywhere but at me.

I take the bags from her and put them in the backseat. I turn to face her and shove my hands in my pockets to guard myself from touching her. I have no idea who all might be watching us, right here out front of the house. No neighbors, but plenty of sets of interested eyes.

"Your mom is an amazing cook."

She makes eye contact now and smiles. "She's the best. You completely charmed her. I think she wants to adopt you both and feed you till you pop."

"Mission accomplished," I assure her. "What about your dad?"

"The man can't boil water for tea," she says with a grin.

"I meant, do you think he hated me?"

She shrugs one shoulder. "He's a little slower to come around to folks. Especially boys who come to call on his daughter."

"Is that what I'm doing? Calling on you?" I ask, feeling very old-fashioned. Like something out of a novel. The thought is appealing. I'd call on her. Write her love notes. Stand under her window with a boom box, blasting Peter Gabriel. God help me.

Her next breath hitches in her throat. "Aren't you?"

"If you'll let me," I say, holding in my next breath. Kissing her is an overwhelming temptation. Now I have a taste for it, instead of an unmet desire. I can't fathom considering myself satisfied, or even any less immune, to the effect of her lips on mine.

She lowers her lashes and shifts her stance, her arm resting on her hip. "Are you really thinking about joining the military after Pinehurst? Instead of Princeton?"

"I never wanted to go to Princeton. It's just expected because my father and his father, and even his father, went there. My Chilton file was stamped Princeton when I applied because my last name is Dugrey, so no one ever asked me if I had an opinion and I was floating along, not worrying about anything more than my weekend plans until I stopped caring about even that much. Craig's been after me to figure out what I want in life, to explore my options. And maybe I'll end up at college right away, but this is the first time I've considered more than one narrow path. I like having options. What about you?"

She shrugs her shoulders inward. "I don't have a lot of options. Pinehurst is expensive enough. If I want to go to college, I'll have to get scholarships, probably at a state school. I've thought about joining the Peace Corps, but my parents wouldn't like it."

"Why not?"

She smiles sadly. "It's not safe enough. They want me to have a good life, all the things they didn't have. Get an education, a good job. Meet a good man. Have a family. Be happy. You know," she says.

I look up at the house. It's well kept, though modest. "Could be worse. My parents don't care if I'm happy. You're lucky, to have parents who care as much as yours do."

"I know," she says, and I believe her. She's still afraid of letting them down again. If they're disappointed in her, they don't show it. "I'm sorry about my dad. He doesn't think much about our generation's work ethic," she says blithely, but doesn't explain why he has such low expectations. It isn't because of her.

"It's okay. I haven't had to work for much in my life, not until now. He should see how hard you work, though. He can't think we're all shiftless and lazy."

She smiles, but it's tight. "He doesn't see a lot of it. He's gone quite a bit. He started driving a truck last year, and that keeps him on the road more than home. It's hard on him, but it's harder on my mom. She always had him around, before."

"What did he do before?"

"Construction, mostly. Some renovation. He owned his own business for a long time."

I nod. Seems like an odd switch, but she doesn't expound and I keep myself from prying, but it's a practice that's becoming harder and harder. It seems like there's so much more to say, even more to ask. Just like it always is with us. There are still walls between us. Things I can't touch. Things I don't say. "Sophie, can we … talk sometime?"

She presses her lips together in a tight line, but she nods. "I have a break at the hospital, at seven tonight. We could meet in the cafeteria there. The coffee's not bad, and some of the food's okay. If you really want," she begins, but I cut her off.

"I do. I'll be there."

She smiles. "You know the way?"

"I'll ask Jack."

"You owe Jack a lot after today," she says faintly.

"He's a good friend. And he got fed. Thank your parents again for dinner."

Her smile remains, but it softens. "Will do."

"I'll see you tonight."

Jack rejoins us, and they say goodbye, something she and I don't do. I nod at her, knowing I'll see her tonight. She watches us pull out of the long driveway, lifting a single hand up in the air and holding it until we turn out of sight. Jack turns on the radio, but doesn't turn it up.

"So, was it worth getting grilled by her dad?"

I lean my head back on the headrest. My eyes close, and I can't help but smile. "I kissed her."

Jack turns to me, quick like a reflex. "Did she slap you?"

I jerk my head forward and blink at him. "What? No. She kissed me back."

He slaps the steering wheel. "Damn it. I just lost twenty bucks."

"You bet on whether she'd slap me? Who else was in on this?"

Jack grins, dubious. "We all were. It was a matter of time, Dugrey. You were gonna kiss that girl. The only question was how she'd react."

"Her name is Sophie," I say, still far too happy just saying her name. "Did you know that before today?"

Jack glances at me with an appraisal of my mental acuity. "It's on her badge, at the hospital."

"Why didn't anyone ever tell me?" I ask. "You all know all this stuff about her, and I'm working for these little bits and pieces. I didn't know her first name, Jack."

Jack stares out at the road. "She never uses it with us. And we don't know everything about her. Some of us, we've been there for her, when she needed a friend. She can't keep everything all bottled up, all the time. No one can. We get it in snippets, same as you. We've just been around longer, you know?"

I nod, calming. Thinking back on the kiss. I know she gives me more than anyone else. We haven't known each other that long, after all. "She asked me to come by the hospital and meet her on her break."

Jack snorts. "Guess a Porsche would come in handy, now, wouldn't it?"

"I'll take the bus. It's not that far, is it?"

"Nah, it's not far. You just have to change lines. I'll show you."

Jack takes off earlier than I do, taking Rob's car for his own volunteering hours. They both work shifts on Sundays, but he's an orderly and she's up on the surgical ward, helping patient's families navigate the information trail. I spend the extra time applying for jobs, armed with a few letters of reference and a willingness to take anything available. I exit Java Jolt, leaving an application for work and taking a cup of coffee to-go to keep me warm on the bus.

I can't get the kiss out of my head. It's all intoxicating; the heady rush of heat pouring through my body, how she melts into my touch. The way she smells, floral and sweet, mixing with the plants all around us. Her thick curls falling through my fingers as I cup her head. I'm grateful for kneeling on the ground; she has the power to bring me to my knees. I stare out the window of the bus, letting the scenery develop into a more urban area while I think of nothing else but her.

Once at the hospital, it's easy to navigate, as Jack promised, from the main entry to the cafeteria. It's a fairly large hospital, one of the few in the immediate area, without going to a major city. I'm guessing larger trauma cases get air lifted to metropolitan areas. This place is busy, though, even on a Sunday night, and the cafeteria is half-full of staff, grabbing dinner, and people no doubt waiting on loved ones and trying to pass the time. It's not the kind of place people choose to meet or share a meal, except maybe for us, but the setting doesn't quell my excitement. Or my nerves.

I spot Sophie easily, even in a crowd. She's changed into black slacks and a nice top, very professional looking. Jack wears scrubs when he heads for the hospital, but their roles are vastly different. She's not likely to get medical waste on her in the course of her duties. Jack deals more with patients, while she mostly talks to nurses and families. She's got her hair pulled back, in a low bun at the base of her neck. My heart leaps in my chest. She sees me and waves me over. I'm barely aware of crossing the room.

"Hey. You came."

I slide into the seat across from her. She's got two covered cups in front of her. "You invited me."

She nods, pensive and curt. "Right. I know."

"Is one of those for me?" I ask, when her mind seems to drift further.

"Oh. Yeah. Sorry," she says, easing it across the hard surface.

I wait for her to withdraw her hand before I claim it. "Thanks. You okay?"

She shakes herself out of her thoughts. "Yes. I just wasn't sure you'd show, I mean, after what happened earlier, I wouldn't have blamed you for needing a break."

I smile, not to ease her discomfort, but because I can't help but. "Sophie, I had a good time today."

Her face softens. Hope lights up her eyes. "You did?"

I want to reach for her hand, but I wrap both mine around the cup. It's warm, but not too hot to hold. There's a chill in the air outside, and I walked four blocks in the wind from the nearest bus stop. "Yes. And I keep my promises."

She smiles, shyly, as though we're little more than strangers. I guess, in the grand scheme of things, that much is true. There's a lot about each other we don't know. Even so, I can't help but feel attached to her. It's more than the kiss. It's not just physical.

"So I've noticed."

"What else have you noticed?" I ask, relaxing into this simple act of spending time with her. On our own, outside of school. Her, a little anxious, me nervous to wake up to find this a dream. I wonder what the chances are that I'm sound asleep on my bunk, in a food coma from Mrs. Bailey's Sunday dinner.

Her eyes trail down my face, to my shoulders. I'm in a t-shirt and hoodie and jeans, completely relaxed and fairly plain. Not quite the effect of my dress uniform, but the way she's looking at me makes me want to find a supply closet or an empty hallway. I press down these urges, reminding myself that I'm lucky that she even wants to meet with me, to talk to me. That our kiss, however transformative, is an anomaly. Not a standard, a given. Not yet. I'm just lucky she can't read my thoughts. I'm not hesitant or reserved with her in my mind.

"I noticed you that first day at Pinehurst."

"The day you turned away from me and ignored me?" I remember with clarity that stings, though I try to keep my voice light.

She sips her coffee. "When you sat next to me," she says quietly, and I lean in to hear her better. "I wasn't ignoring you. I was completely aware of you."

It's not that I don't believe her—her obvious avoidance of me tells of a strong awareness. "Yeah, but you wanted me to go away."

"I did," she admits, her cheeks flushing. "But I didn't."

I frown. "That's … confusing."

"Tristan, I've spent a long time, ever since I got to Pinehurst last year, and a little before that, doing everything in my power to avoid drawing attention to myself. Not standing out. Hoping no one noticed me."

"I know Pinehurst is all about conformity, but total conformity is above and beyond the call of duty."

"I'm not talking about just blending in, fitting in. I didn't want to get attached to anyone."

"You can't keep everyone away."

She smiles sadly. "You'd be surprised how easy it is, to put up walls that shut people out. And how effective."

"It didn't work completely. You still have friends."

"True. But that was mostly because of Jess. You know it's impossible to put her off. And none of the guys, Rob and Jack and Charlie, ever looked at me like anything but a friend. I was just one of the group. One of the guys."

"Not even Rob?" I don't buy it. Jack may be gay and Charlie spoken for, but Rob's a single, heterosexual male. He likes pretty girls, and Sophie more than qualifies.

She laughs softly. "He talks a big game, but he's scared of Jess. I thought … maybe you would be too."

I raise an eyebrow. "Jess' bark is worse than her bite."

Sophie taps her stir stick against the cup. "She's sweet, under the tough shell. She takes in strays, like me and you… But you showed up, and I didn't feel like one of the guys. I couldn't block you out. You sat down, and no matter what I did, I couldn't focus on anything else. Almost like when you're out in the middle of nowhere, scrolling through the radio stations, and all you get is static until you hit a sweet spot and suddenly one station is coming in loud and clear even though the rest of the dial is garbled. I could feel all the jumble of emotions you were going through, radiating off you. You seemed so blindsided, but underneath that you seemed determined. I kept sliding away, because I thought if I just get far enough away, I could lose the signal."

It isn't the wealth of information I expect. It floors me, renders me speechless. I look across the table at her, my brain misfiring. "I … figured you saw me as some screw-up rich kid and wanted nothing to do with me."

She smirks ruefully. "It's what I was expecting. Jess had told us you were coming."

I blow out a breath and shake my head. "Did she say anything else about me?"

Sophie drops her gaze, but her smile grows. "She might have said something about meeting you in your underwear."

I manage a choked laugh. "Is that why Charlie was shooting me death glares that whole morning?"

"Mmm," Sophie giggled. "She told him you weren't her type—too scrawny and arrogant. But that you had potential if you fell in with the right people."

"I wish I could argue with her logic. Though, in my defense, I'm stronger now." Even the t-shirt I'm wearing is tighter in the shoulders. I don't say as much, but it appears she can tell.

"I… noticed," she manages, barely meeting my eyes for a half-second before looking away.

"Sophie, about that kiss."

Now her eyes latch onto mine. Her next words blurt out. "It scares me."

"The kiss?" I ask, leaning in again in confusion.

"No, the kiss was amazing. But that was scary for me too. The way I can't tune you out. I've worked really hard, to be in control of my emotions. To keep everything in check, to feel like I could make a good decision," she shudders out the last bit. "But with you," she exhales the words. She looks terrified, if entirely interested in another kiss.

I, however, cross my arms over my chest. "You think being with me would be a bad decision. Because of all the trouble I got into before I came here?"

"Tristan, please. You don't understand," she pleads, not wanting me to be mad. But how can I be happy when this is what she thinks of me? A pretty distraction. Probably what I deserve, given how I treat girls, or at least how I have in my past.

"Seems pretty clear," I say, pushing my coffee away. My mouth fills with bitter aftertaste, though the coffee is hardly to blame.

"I should explain," she says, screwing her eyes shut tight.

"Go ahead," I say, with too much venom and not enough empathy. It's shocking, how much this hurts. There's a ball of hot lead in my chest, exploding in a series of slow-motion steps. But lashing out at her feels worse than anything else.

"I can't," she whispers. "Not yet. Not all of it. It's a long, if somewhat cliché, story. But when it's your life imploding, it doesn't occur to you that other people have been through the same things; that you can move on. It feels impossible to get out from under. And it all started with me wanting to kiss some guy. To hold his hand, to have him look at me the way you look at me. To have him see me and only me. Do you see?"

"I'm an ass," I mutter, rubbing my hand over my face. She reaches out and pulls my hand down. Her fingers are long and her nails are painted pale pink. Her hand curls around mine like it's made to do just that.

"No. You're not," she says emphatically. "I know that. It's partially why, even though I'm scared to get involved with someone again, I'm here now with you. Why I kissed you back in the greenhouse."

"Please don't say let's just be friends," I whisper.

"When I'm with you, I forget about all the reasons I've avoided being with someone. All the reasons I'm not ready to do it again."

"That's good," I reason, even though I don't have any evidence other than my own selfish gain.

"You should know the whole story," she says sadly. "I like you, Tristan. Probably more than I should. But before anything can happen, there's stuff you need to know. Things that matter, that I need to tell you. And I'm not sure I'm ready to relive it again. And I'm really not sure I trust myself to be with someone again."

I lick my bottom lip. Something sinks in my chest. "So, in other words, you just want to be friends?"

She nods with measure. "Not with benefits, but with potential," she adds thoughtfully. "I'll understand if you're not interested."

I wince at the cruel twist in my chest. A shot at what I want, but with restrictions. Regulations. As if I need a reminder that I go off unchecked in romantic pursuits. That, for the right girl, I do need to put in the work. Even if I don't get her for as long as I'd like or if our first kiss remains our only, all of it is better than the alternative.

"Friends for now," I say, reaching out for her hand. We don't shake on it, but she lets her hand linger against mine, a gesture that is far from friendly. My thumb strokes her palm and my breath goes shallow. Friends don't have the ability to send shock waves up my arm when our hands touch. A friend's kiss isn't raw and stripped down to heat and consuming want. My promise isn't to agree to remain her friend forever. It's just a stop gap. I need so much more from this girl.


	8. Any Marriage Is Work, But You May As Wel

Story: Pinehurst

Chapter 8: "Any Marriage Is Work, But You May As Well Pick Work You Like." (Mindy Kaling)

Summary: Set right after Run Away Little Boy. Tristan heads to North Carolina, to military school. A look at his life as he makes the jump from troubled bad boy with a trust fund to military cadet in the midst of his reform. Not a Trory. OC, with the exception of the Dugreys and the occasional Gilmore reference. Tristan-centric.

Rating: T. For language for sure. Possible adult situations later on.

I make decisions now simply by choosing the opposite of what old Tristan would do.

It's a simple premise, and for the most part, it makes me feel stronger. In control of my life. Smarter. I get a job before spring semester begins. Nothing glamourous or based on connections. I get up earlier, I train harder. I focus in class, not letting myself get distracted by girls or stupid drama. There is still drama buzzing in the background, even at Pinehurst, though not nearly the extent as found in the halls of Chilton. The greatest difference is I don't involve myself. I don't chase girls who thrive on it. I don't chase any girls at all.

Staying away from Sophie without avoiding her completely is the worst kind of torture I inflict on myself. The old Tristan would glue myself to her, applying pressure until she simply gives in and gives me what I want. Now I give her space, hang out with her mostly in the presence of our other friends or in class, to see what happens instead of forcing the issue. Any chance meetings outside the norm or simply catching her alone are just that, by chance. She doesn't tell me to leave her be, or shy away from talking to me. I don't give her a reason to tell me to back off or shield herself from any physical advances-I don't make them. I learn my behavior is a choice. She asks only for my understanding, for my patience. I never thought cultivating these particular virtues would be easy. And they're not.

I invest in healthy outlets to release tension. Coach Manning notices my and Jack's natural competition and encourages it to spur us both to better times on the track. He can practically taste our qualification for State title competition, and I push my body to its physical and mental limits in preparation. Juggling workouts, coursework, volunteer hours, and work as well keeps me constantly busy, in the moment, and enhances my focus.

That's not to say I don't think of Sophie. I flash again and again on her throughout each day, on her smile, on the look in her eyes just before we kissed. I remember holding her while we dance at The Grange. I only take cold showers. Falling asleep is excruciating. I even dream of her. But that's on me, not on her.

To her credit, she doesn't avoid me. She doesn't play games, the way some girls flirt to rile me up only to chastise me for wanting them. She knows where I stand, and she's careful not to touch me when we're together. Nothing in her behavior leads me on, but I often wonder if she thinks about me as more than just one of her friends. I don't create reasons to see her, I don't surprise her after yoga with coffee or constantly remind her that I want to take her out. At Chilton, with any other girl, I would do just that, and more—to the point of overkill. Over the top gestures, brimming with overconfidence—waiting for and expecting a yes. I see her in classes, at lunch, and other school functions. She stops by the coffee shop while I'm working after her yoga class once in a while, but not with enough regularity for me to know when to expect her. She doesn't mention the kiss, but she seems okay that the kiss is a part of our story. That small thing gives me hope.

Four weeks into spring semester, our math teacher begins class by handing out marriage certificates to all the girls.

It's a class project to make us confront the realities of real world math, she explains. We're to learn to budget, learn about debt-to-income ratios and realize once again that high school is to be preparing us for the rest of our lives. There's no buzz of chatter as our partners are revealed, but eyes dart around, taking careful note. Some of my peers barely conceal their disappointment, some show instant relief at their match. I watch Jess, who accepts her assignment and smirks at Jack. Jack nods, in clear relief that if he has to be wed to a member of the opposite sex even for a school assignment, it's a close friend.

By the time Sophie gets her paper, I realize I'm holding my breath. Her eyes scan it quickly, skimming, searching for a name. Her eyes lift and fix to mine. Heat rises in my body, but I force myself to stay calm. I give her a curt nod and listen to the teacher explain the ins and outs of the assignment. How we're to find housing and transportation to our assigned jobs and live within the means set by said jobs. We are to go through the whole process, stopping short of signing a lease or taking out loans. We're to go to a grocery store and pick out and catalog our spending for both a week and a month. Basically anything that costs money and is considered a budget line item—clothes, entertainment, all the way down to money spent on coffee, warrants a discussion and an excursion in practice. Not only do we have to live within the means of a budget, we have to strike compromise to that end with our assigned spouse.

Our teacher suggests we meet up after class to plan our first budget meeting and warns us that money is one of the top items couples fight about, so to consider the honeymoon to be over. She gives us the last ten minutes to pair up with our partners and agree on first steps. Jack and Jess are already laughing at something, and I sit down next to Sophie and pull out a pen and my open notebook.

"Hey," I say as I tap my pen against the desk. Our knees brush under the desks and I try to swivel my legs to give her more space. "You okay with this? I can ask to switch places with Jack, I'm sure Jess wouldn't mind."

Sophie's eyes go wide for a second, but she recovers fast. "Oh. You don't want to work together?"

"No, I mean, it's… I just thought maybe you … I don't know. Is this weird?" I ask mostly because I can't read her reaction. I know she's polite enough to pretend otherwise, even if she is unhappy to be stuck with me.

"Maybe a little, to be honest. But I was glad I got you. I haven't known how to be around you, what to do, since you came to the house. This will give us something to focus on," she explains more eloquently than I can.

"Like our marriage," I joke.

She scans her copy of the assignment and lets my awkward humor fall short. Not that I blame her. "Should we start brainstorming at lunch?"

"Today?"

She smiles and holds up the paper. "We have a month to get all this done. We should get started soon. Don't you think?"

I nod. "Sounds good."

"See you at lunch?"

"Yeah," I say as she tucks the assignment into a folder and slides the folder into her backpack. "Sophie?"

She looks up at me immediately, freezing just slightly at the sound of her first name at school. Most of our classmates are filtering out the door ahead of us, but we walk slower, hanging back just a bit.

"Sorry, would you rather I call you Bailey?"

She shakes it off as we exit into the hall, me letting her lead just by a step or two. "No, it's fine. Everyone else does, but I like that you don't."

"You'd tell me, right? If something I do upsets you," I say quietly, leaning in a little further. She stops by some lockers and leans her shoulder against one. We're in our own little world off to the side in the hallway, people walking past to their next classes. We should join them, divert in separate directions of the hall. I have Spanish, she takes French. Neither of us are in a hurry.

"Of course," she says, but it isn't wholly convincing. She has no reason to force such blunt truth on me. She has every right to avoid an uncomfortable confrontation. But that isn't what I want, even if it's not fair to ask so much.

"Promise?"

Her nod is firm, even if her voice is shaky. "I promise."

I suck in a breath and nod, my eyes out on the sea of people. "See you at lunch, Sophie."

"Okay," she says, and she stands still at first while I walk away. I look back over my shoulder when I reach the end of the hall, but by then she's gone. And just like that, Sophie and I enter into our arranged marriage, courtesy of Pinehurst Military Academy.

Lunch finds us mostly ignoring the food on our respective trays, instead pouring over the want ads section of the local newspaper Jack provides to one and all, searching for possible apartments for rent that meet our needs. We agree that we need to be close to school and work, and then what becomes painfully clear is that we need to first agree on our other needs.

Our first go at compromise ends in a stalemate, not wedded bliss. Her first tact in the face of opposition is gentle steering, her voice never raising, too even and sweet, and I realize it's a trick she's obviously learned early in life. I wonder if her mother speaks to her father like that to get her way once in a while. Or always. "We need to at least look at two bedrooms. What will we do if guests come to stay?"

"What guests will want to stay at our apartment?" I pose, not a crack in my expression. "Jack and his lovely wife Jessica?"

Charlie snorts and Jess hits my bicep with her elbow from my other side. Hard. Sophie ignores them. "I was thinking of your family. They'd want to visit their only son and his wife."

Now I scoff and rub my arm. It's my mistake for flanking myself with beautiful, strong-willed women. "You've clearly never met your in-laws."

"If it was real life, I would meet them. And I would want a proper place for them to sleep."

"That's the whole purpose of hotels!" I announce, to which an expression of horror etches deep in her graceful features.

"You'd make your mama sleep in a hotel?" She manages to make the last word sound distasteful.

I cross my arms. "My _mother_ loves hotels."

"But why would she want to stay in a hotel when she could stay with her son?"

"Because her son's tiny two-bedroom apartment won't have an elevator, let alone boast a five-star VIP experience, complete with a full spa and salon, comped room service, and a car service for shopping."

Jess lets out a low, appreciative whistle under her breath, but Sophie is unfazed. "All those fancy extras can't beat a family's welcome of a warm bed and a homemade breakfast in the morning."

I raise an eyebrow at her, a challenge. "And just who is making this breakfast?"

"I am, you short-sighted Yankee!" she exclaims, surprising herself with the force of her emotion, and she sits back, fuming. Jess and Jack share a look across the table, and Jess stamps on Charlie's foot as he snickers under his breath.

I know I have to tread lightly here, seeing as she is madder than a wet hen (a phrase I glean from Jack and finally understand), and the vein in my forehead starts to throb. My jaw is tight, and I rein in my frustration and cling to logic. "I still think we really need to look at studios. Our budget is tight, especially if we want to afford food. Besides, we're newlyweds. They're famous for enjoying tight quarters."

I'm not surprised when she crosses her arms and refuses to talk to me for the remainder of lunch. The rest of my day is a blur of assignments piling onto my already full schedule, to the point I'm looking forward to going to work after track practice. I shower off and dress in a black tee shirt and jeans, the unofficial uniform my manager approves, and let my mind wander as I clear mugs and wipe down tables. The smell of coffee seems to fade the longer I'm in the building, but my desire for a cup grows, so I order a pour-over for my break and head outside to one of the iron tables along the sidewalk. The sun is setting and a slight breeze blowing in off the coast, but it feels good. Like it's the first time I stop to relax all day.

I hear her walk up behind me. Sophie doesn't ask to join me, she just pulls out the other chair at my table and sits. She's come from yoga class, her late night on campus. I know she has a session with one of the school counselors just after school, and sometimes she cuts across the quad yard on the side of the track to get there. She didn't today. Or at least, I didn't see her. Now her hair is pulled back in a messy, high bun, but she reaches up and unleashes it so it falls around her shoulders before she finally speaks. "Hey."

"Hey," I say, and then instead of taking another drink, I hold the cup out to her. "Want some?"

"You're gonna share your coffee with me?"

I say nothing and she accepts the gesture without further inquiry. The sun hangs on the horizon behind her, making me squint, but I don't take my eyes off her. She looks so damn cute, in her yoga pants and loose t-shirt with a green lotus flower on the front. Everything about her is calm and relaxed, unlike our bickering match at lunch. She smiles at me over my coffee cup. I clear my throat and hope I don't stick my foot in my mouth. Much. "Well, we're married. What's mine is yours, right?"

There's a silence between us for a beat, stretching through the evening air. "I'm sorry about earlier. I shouldn't have assumed you'd agree to everything I want. And I shouldn't have assumed to know about your family. I guess our families are pretty different, huh?"

I nod absently and stare at the table. It's a little metal bistro table, and someone has scratched their initials into the paint in one corner. "Yeah, seems they are."

She lowers her chin, but her eyes never leave mine. "Do you wish you were closer to your folks?"

Her voice is soft and gentle, but I feel the question hard in my gut. "I don't know. Maybe I did when I was little. We've never had that kind of relationship, I can't picture it. Do ever wish things were different with you and your parents?"

"I wish I hadn't let them down," she admits. "I know I'm lucky to have them and their support. I can't imagine what Jack's gone through, with his parents disowning him for being gay. I don't know how either of you manage without your folks."

"I don't need my parents in my life. I have good friends."

She puts the drink down on the table and refolds her hands in her lap a couple of times, making me think the calm she achieves in yoga isn't extending very far outside of class. Her hands are so restless, I have to restrain myself from reaching out and stilling them with my own. "I'm thinking that maybe we skipped a step."

I raise an eyebrow. "Which step? The first part of the assignment is to find an apartment."

"I know what the assignment is, but maybe we should treat this more like real life. In real life, people get to know each other before they get married. I'm just saying, if we actually were a young married couple looking for their first apartment, we'd probably have even gone on a date or two first."

I don't argue the point, even though it feels like some kind of trick. Her reasoning is sound, but still. "So, what are you suggesting? You think it will improve our ability to do the project if we go on a date first?"

Her hands are still in motion, wringing together furtively. "It would help us get to know each other a little more. It's the whole point of dating, right?"

I blink at her. I should agree and stop while I'm ahead, something I'm notoriously bad at. "But you said," I protest, then I hate myself for it. I should be picking her up, twirling her around and thanking her. There must be a happy medium. But this feels like we're coming from this sideways. "You weren't ready to date."

Now she's worried. "You don't want to go out with me any more?"

This stops my internal dialogue. "No, I do."

Now one hand twirls a lock of hair in a corkscrew motion. She's overflowing with nervous energy. Even her toes are bouncing against the cement. "So ask me out."

If she's trying to short circuit my brain, she's a master. But she's not playing mind games, she's telling me something. Like she's leading a horse to water, guiding me with simple instruction. "Again?"

She smiles at me, or just my confusion. I must look like an idiot. I feel like an idiot, like I can easily screw this up. "Yes. Please."

"Sophie, will you go out with me?"

She nods and her smile brightens. She stills. "I'd like that."

I pause, my consternation starting to ebb away. "How about tomorrow? Are you free?"

Another nod. Her hands press flat against her knees. "Tomorrow sounds good."

She's agreeable, but it feels too easy. "What about your parents?"

"It's for school," she says without missing a beat, and something in me deflates. "They won't mind."

"Oh, right," I say, as if I'm on the same page. "I've never had a date for research purposes before."

My words are thick and dampened by the constraints she puts on all our interactions. If she notes my disillusionment, she hides it by taking the cup and drinking half my remaining coffee. It's cooled quite a bit by now. She sets it down on the table and stands, swinging her bag with a yoga mat sticking out of it onto one shoulder.

"I should get going. My dad's out on the road, so Mama needs my help at home."

"I need to get back to work anyway," I say, standing up and finishing off the dregs from the bottom before tossing into the trash can by the door.

She reaches for me, her hand coming to rest on my forearm. I regard her fingers splayed open, her skin pale against mine thanks to all the extra time I spend outside with the track team, trying to beat Jack's best time. When I look down her expression softens. "I'm glad we're partners, Tristan."

"Yeah. Me too," I manage, though I don't watch her leave. I just go back to work, keep my head down, and start planning our first date, real or not.

Jess slides into her seat at the lab table the next afternoon, with a couple of minutes to spare before class starts. I'm going over my notes, trying to prepare for the eventuality of a pop quiz once the bell rings. Jess is either better prepared than I, or far less concerned about the curve.

She starts talking before she starts to unpack supplies from her backpack. "So, tonight's the big date."

I don't look up. "You and Charlie eloping?"

She rolls her eyes, as if speaking with me is a chore. Maybe it is. Not that I care. Sarcasm is a perfectly good defense mechanism, and I need to study the organic compounds from this unit. I have no aspirations to become a doctor, and chemistry does nothing to change my mind.

"Where are you taking her?"

I look upward, as if beseeching some higher power, the kind that can save me from this conversation. Would that involve smiting or some sort of plague? I have no idea. I also have no idea how Jess knows about my upcoming plans with Sophie. I haven't exactly been boasting about my mock-date, and we only made plans last night. "Who told you? Jack?"

She shakes her head, her grin triumphant. "Bailey told me. She's excited."

"She is not. It's an assignment to her. She wants a good grade on this project."

"Well, I want a good grade too, but I'm not going out with Jack for extra credit."

I point at her obnoxious grin. "This is why I'm not telling you anything."

"Don't you want to know if your date idea sucks?"

I put my pencil down with a thwack. "My idea is fine. I understand the concept of a date."

"So, you admit you think of it as a date!"

"I'm not having this conversation."

"Listen, Tristan, Bailey's gun shy with the whole dating thing. You need advice. Guys like cars, right?"

I sigh at the onset of a headache. "I guess."

"So, imagine the day you get your license, your parents buy you a brand new sports car and you take it out for a drive."

"Not a stretch of the imagination. My parents bought me a Boxer for my sixteenth birthday."

She groans at my interjection. "God, just, listen, okay? So, you're in your new car, taking your very first ride, and you get into a horrible car accident. The car's totaled, you end up in the hospital, and have to endure months of physical therapy afterward. Would you be in a hurry to get behind the wheel again?"

"Actually, studies show that's the best way to overcome those kinds of mental trauma, to face your fears head on. Get back on the horse. Or, Porsche, I guess."

Jess isn't amused at my knowledge. "Bailey doesn't want you to be her psychiatrist, she wants you to be her boyfriend."

"It's one night getting to know each other for a class project. I hardly think," I start, but she jabs me with the eraser end of her own pencil, now that she's starting to unpack for class.

"Don't think, Tristan. Just go on a date with the girl you like. Make her forget it's for class or whatever excuse she's told herself to get herself there. She wants to be with you. She can't just jump in, because she's afraid she'll lose control again. That she'll get hurt again."

I start to protest, but I reconsider. I nod. "Okay. Thanks."

"And Tristan, one more thing."

"Yeah?"

"Don't hurt her. Or I will kill you."

I smile. "We're going to a revival house just east of here. They're doing a Bogart and Bacall weekend. There's a little diner on the way, Jack says is always good. They supposedly have great pie."

Jess smiles, giving her approval of my plan. "She'll love that."

"And I know to pick her up at her house and talk to her parents. Or, it sounds like just her mom. Her dad's on the road. I will open doors for her and let her order her own food, and not to try and kiss her on the first date."

"That's all well and good, but just so you know, the holding back a kiss on the first date isn't a hard and fast rule. Especially if it's a good first date. The hard part is getting her there. Once she's out with you—she'll be fine. And so will you."

I hope she's right. I'm so nervous, my stomach feels like someone's slashing at it with knives. I'm running out of distractions to hold my focus away from worrying about the ways the date could go wrong, the first being her just simply changing her mind. But when she leaves after the final bell, she smiles and says she'll see me tonight. All afternoon, there is no call or text offering any regrets. I take a long run after class, follow up with a long shower, then swing by Rob's room to borrow his car keys. Before I know it, I'm driving south toward the Bailey's farmhouse with the windows down to cool me off and the radio turned up to drown out my thoughts. I turn off the radio as I turn off the road onto the long, winding gravel drive, not wanting to offer any negative first impressions.

I hear the screen door slam the second I cut the engine. I step out from the driver's side and lean on the roof of the car, calling out to Sophie as she jogs across the yard.

"What are you doing?" I demand, completely incredulous at the way she's starting the evening.

She stops cold, her eyes wide and blinking. "You're here to pick me up, right?"

I gesture to the house with an open hand. "I'm here," I begin slowly, "to pick you up. Properly."

"I already told her about the project and that I'd be home by curfew," she says. "And she's met you before, when you showed up unannounced to church and came for supper, remember?"

"That was different."

"How?"

"That wasn't a date," I say, holding my ground. She looks lovely. A soft cotton wrap dress and her hair pulled back over one shoulder. "This is."

"You're serious?"

I cross my arms over my chest. I am not willing to budge, to take the easy way. "If we're doing this, I want to do this right."

"Oh, for heaven's sake. Come on, then," she says, turning back toward the porch. I follow a few steps behind, as she pulls the door open and calls out to her mother.

"Mama?"

I hear foot falls on hardwood, and then her mother appears in the foyer. "You forget something, Honey? I think you should take a sweater, it's supposed to get cooler tonight," Mrs. Bailey says, sweater already folded over one arm.

She looks surprised to see me behind Sophie, but she greets me warmly. "Hello, Tristan. How are you this evening?"

"I'm fine, Mrs. Bailey, and yourself?"

She hands Sophie the sweater. Sophie accepts it wordlessly, her respect for her mother an ingrained habit. "I'm doing well, thank you. You two have a lot of studying to do, but you know she's to be home by eleven, right?"

"She will be. She's safe with me."

"I'm glad to hear it," she says, meeting my eye with a firm, if still warm, meaning. "Well, then, you two go on now. Wake me up when you get in, darlin'."

"I will, Mama," she says, leaning in to kiss her mother's cheek. She turns, gives me a look I can't quite read, and then I'm following her out the door, calling my goodbyes over my shoulder.

We don't speak until we strap our seatbelts and I put the car in reverse to navigate a three-point turn and head back down her driveway. "So, you told your mom this is a study date?"

She's chewing on her lip, her hands tucked under her thighs by way of immobilizing them. "It's not a lie."

"And yet, there's not a book between us."

"Well, we aren't studying books. We're studying our compatibility."

"There are quantitative ways of doing that? Should we be taking notes?"

She gives me that look again. "Is this how you usually act on dates?"

I focus out the windshield. The greenery is thick in parts and hits the side of the car as we go on. "I don't know."

"It's been so long you don't remember?" she asks, her skepticism warranted.

I clear my throat. I'm about to admit something to her that I've never admitted to anyone. "I haven't done this enough to have a usual way of acting, exactly."

"You've gone out with lots of girls. And you seemed pretty at ease when I saw you with that girl at The Grange."

"That wasn't a date. That was a random hook up, at a club. I've hooked up with lots of girls, at clubs and parties. Loud, crowded places where people congregate and don't talk. I haven't done the whole dating thing, where I ask a girl ahead of time, change my shirt five times, pick her up, talk to her parents, and go on a date, with a set plan and actually get to know her. Well, I mean once I did take a girl out to dinner and a movie, but it wasn't even my idea. I agreed to it because I had a crush on the girl who suggested I do it. It's kind of a long story."

She listens, but I can tell she's having trouble processing my words. "You dated someone to make another girl jealous?"

"No. I was trying to be her friend, and it backfired. That's not the point. My point is, it wasn't a real date, because I didn't want to go out with that girl as anything more than a friend, if that. We were just two people who watched a movie together and shared bread before dinner and talked about history and politics. It was nothing like this. I asked you out."

"I told you to. For school," she interjects.

I ignore her attempt to derail my point. "I asked you out again because you were ready, for whatever reason. I planned where we'd go, based on what I thought you'd enjoy. I changed my shirt six times. I begged Rob for his car and promised him a month of free coffee in return. I came to your door to pick you up, even though I had to march you back there myself, and now we get the next five hours to spend alone, learning about each other. And there is no one else I'd rather be with at all."

"Six times? I thought I was bad. I changed four times."

I take a minute to appreciate her outfit, and all the little touches for our date, for me. The silver chain around her neck. The pale pink lipstick. The way her long hair, which is curlier than normal, cascades over one shoulder. She relaxes a little, getting used to my presence. "You look beautiful. Did I say that already?"

She blushes and slips her fingers along her necklace until she settles on the charm. It's a butterfly. "No."

"I should have. It was the first thought I had when I saw you, how pretty you look. More so than usual."

She turns to look out the window, but I catch the smile on her face as I turn off her driveway and onto the main road. We're on our way now. I rest my hand on the gear shift between us, and she asks if I mind before changing the radio station. It's slim pickings, as we're further out from bigger cities, but she keeps going until she finds a country station, with some static cutting in and out on the frequency until we're closer to our destination. She's humming along with the tune, just barely loud enough to hear the way she harmonizes. It's clear she knows the words, even those garbling with static, though she doesn't sing them. I check the rearview mirror a couple of times before I sneak a peek her direction.

She stops humming. "Why are you looking at me like that?"

"I was just listening."

"Does it bother you? My brother's always telling me to stop humming around the house."

I sneak another glance her way and then focus on the road ahead. "I like it. I was actually hoping you'd sing along."

She shakes her head, her protest immediate, engrained somehow. "I can't."

"Sure you can. You're amazing. I heard you sing at church."

"That's different," she says, dismissing my point and my compliment.

"You'll sing to a room full of people, but not in front of just one person in an enclosed car?"

"I don't sing _alone_ at church, I'm with a whole choir."

"You had a solo."

"Still. I'm up there with other people, and it's worship. It's different, is all."

I could worship so many things about her, but I'm sure this isn't what she wants to hear. "It's still your voice. And I like your voice."

She smiles at the compliment. "Thank you. But I don't sing in the car, unless I'm alone."

"I thought we were supposed to get to know each other. I want to see all the quirks, find out what I'm signing up for in that studio apartment."

Her nose wrinkles at the mention of a studio. "You signed up for humming, if I hear a song I love on the radio."

I continue to drive, but my mouth won't stop. As is often the case. "What if I were to ask you?"

"Ask me to sing? Instead of arguing with me?" she teases.

"I like to argue," I say with a wink. "One of my quirks."

She raises an eyebrow. "Singing is better for the soul than arguing."

"Are you concerned with the fate of my soul?"

"If I were truly your wife, I would be," she retorts, to chastise me, but I can't help but laugh. I want to squeeze her hand, but she's got both hands wedged under her legs again.

"Are you cold?"

"No, why?"

"Your hands," I say, pointing with my index finger of my right hand, keeping the rest curled around the top of the gear shift.

"Oh. I bite my nails when I'm nervous, and I didn't want to ruin them. Mama painted them for me."

"Do I make you nervous?"

"A little. Not you so much as the idea of being on a date. I mean, I know we said it's not a real date, but even so. I haven't had a boy pick me up and take me out in a long time."

"Sophie," I grit her name through my teeth. "This is a real date. I mean, you can call it what you want, but for me, this is as real as it gets. I've wanted to get to know you since the first day I saw you. If it helps with our project, even better, but right now? I'm just a guy that's out with a beautiful girl, hoping to show her a good enough time that she'll agree to do it again sometime. I'm nervous, too. Okay?"

"Okay," she whispers. Her hands slip out, into view, and she rests them on her lap, neatly folding them together. We both settle into an easy quiet while she hums along to the radio for the rest of the drive. I give her a smile of appreciation every time she catches my eye.

Dinner goes well, though neither of us eat much. The diner is lit with bright fluorescents, and we're both a little too polite, and I feel like I have to sneak glances at her so she won't think I'm staring at her while she eats. She handles her dinnerware gently and properly, her manners ebbing into even the smaller details, like how she lays her flatware on the plate neatly once she's done. She excuses herself to the bathroom at the end of the meal, and I stand up when she leaves the table, because Jack's always doing that kind of thing. She smiles, as if I'm amusing her, and I sit down and heave a sigh, wondering if all first dates are fraught with so much uncertainty and guesswork. I have no measurement for how badly I'm blowing my shot with her.

The movie theater is my reprieve. I order far too much food given that we came from dinner, but my stomach is growling and I imagine she might be more inclined to eat in the dark of the theater as well. All the light comes from the screen in front of us in grey and black and white, and when we speak, we oblige to lean in close and whisper.

"I love this place," she says, her breath warm against my cheek. "I used to come here with my grandmother when I was little."

I hope that means I've chosen well. "Popcorn?"

"Did I see you got Red Vines?"

I slip the bag over to her and hear the tear of the plastic wrapper. She slips out two and takes a satisfying snap off the ends. She turns to me and laughs softly. "What?"

"Nothing. You're cute."

She wrinkles her nose. "Cute?"

"What's wrong with cute?"

She thinks on that a minute. "It's that word. Cute. Puppies are cute."

"You're not cute in a puppy way," I whisper to her.

"There is another kind of cute?"

"There are lots of types of cute."

"What type am I?" she prods, waiting for an answer with another snap off her candy. I swear her eyes glimmer even in the dark.

"You're a finding out what kind of candy a girl likes at the movies on a first date kind of cute," I say, still in hushed tones.

She doesn't protest, and she settles into the seat as she looks at the screen. Her shoulder tucks in next to mine and I do my best not to break the simple contact. The movie hasn't started yet, but they're showing old clip reels from the 40s to put us in the mood for Bogart. I dig into the popcorn with my left hand, studiously not looking at her to my right. Just before the opening scene appears, she leans in closer.

"Tristan?"

"Yeah?"

"You're cute, too."

The first movie is _To Have And Have Not_ , and the double feature offers _The Big Sleep_. Our snacks are gone before the second film starts, and I actually pay attention to the plots, despite the very cute girl next to me, who is equally engrossed. The first is a war movie, and a Hemingway adaptation, which I read at Chilton, but the actors are larger than life and keep my attention in a way the book never quite did. Sophie mentions she read it last year as well and is happy to find the same main co-stars appear in _The Big Sleep_ during the intermission.

"I love her, she's such a badass. She's the kind of woman I always hoped to be when I grew up," she whispers, so as not to bother the other people around us as the credits roll at the top of the second movie. It's not a war film, but another book adaptation, a famous mystery by Raymond Chandler. So many pop culture references I've heard before but never really understood crop up, and I like finding that context.

I also like how Sophie leans over the arm rest, curling in toward me to protect herself from the tension on screen, and her cheek rests against my shoulder.

"Are you scared?" I whisper into her ear with a grin.

"Shhh," she admonishes playfully, but she tucks in when I slide an arm around her shoulders. She doesn't protest at my added protection, and we watch as Phillip Marlowe navigates the immediacy of his world, in which he attempts to both solve the case and get the girl. I hope I'm half as lucky as he.

We're in the car heading back to her house, when she tells me to take an unexpected turn. "Is this a short cut?"

"Not exactly. We won't be late, though."

I adjust the rear view mirror and then drum my thumbs against the steering wheel as we followed the long straight-away of a country road. "So, what's the verdict? Did you learn anything about me?"

She leans her head back against the headrest and turns to look at me. I keep her view of my profile and concentrate on the road ahead of us, this different route, waiting for her answer or her next direction.

"You have good taste in movies. You got my Red Vines. You babble when you're nervous. You've been a total gentleman the whole night."

"Because I open doors for you?"

"It's more than that. I mean, yeah, you opened doors and paid for the food and the tickets, but you paid attention. You always pay attention. You listen when I talk, not just wait for your turn. You do this thing, when we walk through a doorway, where you put your hand at the middle of my back, so it feels like you're supporting me and letting me lead at the same time."

I don't say that I can't help but touch her any chance I get. "Are these things you'd enjoy in a fake husband?" I say, trying to show her I can tie this in to our assignment, but we both know what she's saying. What she's realizing, maybe for the first time.

"So far you make a fine fake husband," she repeats, mocking my aloofness.

I push her a little, hoping she won't shut me out again. "What about a real boyfriend?"

I hear her inhale, soft yet sharp. "Can you pull over? Just up here? There's a turn out."

"What? Why?"

"Just pull over. Please?"

The sinking feeling in my gut assures me I'm pushing her away somehow. I remember her walking the last bit from the road when I dropped her home after The Grange last semester. I do as she asks, and she's unbuckled by the time I cut the engine. "Come on," she says, exiting the car as I struggle to catch up. I round the hood of the car to find her wading through grass so tall it reaches our thighs, and I hear water moving not far away. A river, I assume, though I can't see it yet. But we exit the grass and there it is, with us on the banks. "Sit with me."

I sit down on the ground next to her. "Look, I shouldn't have pushed the subject. I know you only agreed to this for school," I say with regret as I pick up a rock and skip it toward the water. It's too dark for me to see it, but I hear the splash as it breaks the surface.

"It's not just for school," she says. The wind blows her hair a bit, back away from her face. She's not timid, even if she's nervous. I look up at her. She leans in closer, leaning her weight on her hand that rests just behind my back on the ground. Her shoulder presses into mine, and I lower my head. My nose grazes hers. I'm not sure who is leading the charge here, as we both close the gap. She's warm against me, but huddling in like she's seeking my heat. When our lips brush I reach for her, curling my fingers gently behind her ear. Our kisses are soft at first, but quick, both of us coming back for more and more. Her other hand rests on my chest, no doubt feeling how hard my heart is thudding in its cage, and the kisses change. Each one lingers and resonates. The intensity shuts down my concept of time, ability to reason, and basically everything that isn't connecting with her right here and now. Even parts of me that aren't pressed against her are hyperaware of her, attune to her.

We both breathe hard as she rests her head at my shoulder. I still hold her head, now cradling her to me. I should be bracing myself. This is where she'll tell me it's too much too soon. That she's not ready. That her past is still blocking her present and future. But all I can focus on is the sound of our breathing and the raw, tingling sensation of the cool air hitting my lips. Thinking about how bad I want to kiss her again.

I let go as she pulls back, and the way she looks at me—there's no regret. There's not a trace of any of her usual hesitation. She's quiet, but I realize she's waiting for me to say something. I don't trust words, not like I trust what just happened. It's an instinct, to pull her back to me and show her how I feel.

She gasps in at first, but then she's right there with me. After a few more minutes, during which she wrinkles the front of my shirt as she balls it up in her fists, she drags her teeth off my lip and stares at me. Her eyes are wide and dark, like she's caught in a trance. It must be like looking in a mirror, because I'm under the same pull. I want to kiss her again and again, to see if it's just as powerful as the last time. If anything, it gets better each time. I want more time, more of her and us, but for now it's enough that she wants the same thing. She doesn't say it, but I know she wouldn't be here with me like this if she didn't want to be.

When she speaks again, it's a whisper of regret, but finally in my favor. "I had a really good time tonight. But I should get home soon."

I nod, because she's right. She needs to get home and I need to take her. She'll be more upset with herself for missing her curfew than her parents could ever be, and I'm happy to operate within any constructs she wants. "Okay."

Her hand slides down my arm, slowing at my wrist, and our fingers interlock. I sweep my thumb across the back of her hand, once and then again. She comes closer. "Can we do this again?"

"The fake date?" I ask, grazing the top of her ear with my nose. If I can't taste her, breathing her in is a close second. Feeling her against me could easily become a top priority in my life. Maybe it already is. "Or the real kissing?"

"We do need to look at apartments soon anyway for the project," she says, shuddering a little as my breath tickles her neck behind her hair as I move it back, unable to stop touching her. "But after that, we could go out again?"

I run a finger down her cheek. "You mean, for real? Or for the project?"

Her eyes light up as she lifts her chin toward me. Now I see courage in her expression. Willing herself to push past whatever scares her about dating. "For real. Just for us."

I kiss her again, quick and solid. Her hands grip my arms tight in response. "It's a date. Let's get you home so your mom doesn't worry."

Her smile is full of relief, clearly my response is what she wants to hear. I stand up and pull her up as well, I like that she lets me. I know she's capable of everything I am—hell, she's probably capable of more than I am in many respects. She doesn't need me to open doors for her or figure out a tip, or assist her in standing up. But the smile she offers in return, the demure little sweep of her lips to one side, the murmured thanks she utters, bolster my ego in ways nothing else ever has. When I'm around her I feel like a gentleman—a good man.

I walk her to her porch, with five minutes to spare, but she doesn't rush up the steps. She leans back against a post and I lean in to her. The house is mostly dark, with the porch light on and one other window upstairs bright behind a drawn curtain. No one is watching, and I can't leave without another kiss. I know the night has to end, but it's not over yet. Five minutes there on her porch with her arms around my shoulders is like a gift. Her fingers play at the nape of my neck, at the close cropped hair.

Too soon she's taking a step up, above me. Away. "Good night, Tristan."

I don't move, standing right at the base of her porch. "Good night, Sophie."

She pauses. "You'll call tomorrow?"

"On my way to pick you up."

She blows me a kiss, a sweet gesture I don't expect, and then she's gone inside, the screen door slapping gently closed. I don't hurry back to my car. My return back to campus is slow. I replay the best parts of the night, pretty much the whole thing, over and over until I return the car and the keys and my head hits my pillow. I can't believe my own damn good luck.


End file.
